Kite Man proved to be the calm before the storm. Several criminals who had watched recordings of the fight convinced themselves that they now understood everything they needed to defeat Spider-Man. They saw how quickly he abandoned an advantage whenever civilians were endangered and realized his spider-sense meant very little if he could not move. Before the afternoon ended, they chose the George Washington Bridge as the place to test their plan.
Peter was swinging north when an explosion rolled across the bridge and sent a column of black smoke into the sky. His HUD immediately detected emergency calls reporting damaged vehicles, injured motorists, and a city bus hanging over the edge. Peter changed direction without hesitation and accelerated toward the smoke, ignoring the possibility that the explosion had been created to attract him. Whether it was another trap or not, there were innocent people in danger.
When Peter reached the damaged section of the bridge, he found several cars scattered across the road and a large crater torn through two lanes. The front half of a city bus hung beyond the guardrail while its rear wheels slowly slid across the broken pavement. Terrified passengers pressed themselves against the back of the bus, afraid that any movement would send it falling into the river. Peter fired several thick web lines onto the rear frame and anchored another group to the bridge supports.
Peter landed behind the bus, wrapped both hands around the webbing, and pulled with all his strength. The bus groaned as it stopped sliding, its damaged frame scraping against the edge while Peter fought to drag it backward. "Everyone stay toward the back and try not to move," he shouted through the broken rear window. "I know that sounds impossible right now, but I promise this ride is not ending in the river."
The bus rose inch by inch until its rear tires finally touched the pavement, but most of its weight still hung over the side. At that moment Peter's spider-sense exploded through his skull, warning him of an attack coming from his left. He knew he could avoid it by releasing the webbing and jumping, but doing so would allow the bus to fall. Peter tightened his grip instead and ignored every instinct screaming at him to move.
A gunshot cracked across the bridge, followed by several more as masked men emerged from behind abandoned vehicles. "Seriously?" Peter called while straining against the weight of the bus. "There was an explosion, a collapsing bridge, and a bus full of people, but you still thought this situation needed guns?" Most of the bullets missed, striking the pavement and damaged railing around him.
One round tore through Peter's left shoulder, twisting his upper body and weakening his grip on the webs. Peter clenched his teeth to keep from crying out as blood spread beneath the torn fabric of his suit. "I'd like to quietly thank whoever trained you guys," he said through the pain. "If any of you were good shots, this would be a much shorter conversation."
The webbing slipped several inches through Peter's hands, and the bus lurched forward as its rear tires lifted away from the pavement. Screams erupted from inside while Peter planted both feet and forced his injured arm to keep pulling. The masked gunmen stepped closer, realizing that their plan had worked and Spider-Man could not dodge without sacrificing the passengers. One of them raised his rifle and ordered the others to aim for Peter's head.
Before they could fire again, a heavily armored SWAT officer rushed between Peter and the gunmen with a reinforced ballistic shield. Bullets hammered against its surface as the officer braced himself and shouted, "Keep pulling, Spider-Man! We've got you covered!" Peter glanced to his right and saw a SWAT truck parked several vehicles away. More officers poured from the back and advanced behind shields while patrol officers moved trapped motorists toward safety.
"You have no idea how happy I am to see you," Peter said as he adjusted his bloody grip on the webbing. The shield officer held his position despite the rounds striking only inches from his face and answered, "Captain Stacy told us not to let you stand alone." Two additional SWAT officers joined him and formed a protective wall around Peter. Behind them, their team ordered the masked gunmen to drop their weapons.
The attackers refused and spread between the abandoned cars, attempting to fire around the shields from different angles. SWAT responded with controlled shots toward their cover, forcing them to duck while another team moved along the opposite lane. Smoke from the explosion drifted across the bridge and obscured everyone's view, but the officers continued feeding Peter directions whenever a shooter changed position. For the first time since the bounty began, Peter did not have to divide his attention between saving civilians and protecting himself.
Peter took one painful step backward, followed by another, until the bus finally began sliding away from the edge. Several SWAT officers secured cables to its rear axle and connected them to their armored truck, adding the vehicle's strength to Peter's pull. The bus scraped across the broken guardrail before its front wheels rose onto the bridge. Once all four tires touched the pavement, Peter webbed the frame to several support beams and shouted for the passengers to evacuate through the rear door.
The SWAT officer lowered his shield enough to look back at Peter. "Bus is secure. Can you still fight?" he asked after noticing the blood covering Peter's shoulder. Peter released the webbing and flexed his injured arm before replying, "I've had better afternoons, but I can still embarrass people who shoot at buses." The officer nodded and moved aside as Peter fired a web line toward the nearest masked gunman.
Peter ripped the rifle from the man's hands and webbed him against the hood of a damaged car. He vaulted over the SWAT line, avoiding another burst of gunfire before kicking a second attacker's weapon into the air. "Your entire plan depended on me refusing to let innocent people die," Peter said as he webbed two more men together. "That wasn't bad research, but assuming the police would let you murder me was a pretty serious mistake."
The remaining gunmen tried to retreat toward a van parked beyond the blast site, only to find patrol cars blocking their escape. SWAT officers surrounded them from both directions and ordered them onto the ground, while Peter webbed the van's doors shut before anyone could reach it. Within minutes, every attacker had been disarmed, restrained, and separated for questioning. The ambush had failed, but Peter understood how close they had come to succeeding.
Across the city, Gwen sat on the couch with Helen when live footage from the bridge replaced the afternoon news. A helicopter camera showed Spider-Man struggling to pull the bus while bullets struck the pavement around him. Gwen moved to the edge of her seat as the camera zoomed in on the blood covering his shoulder. She gripped her phone tightly, knowing Peter would never answer while he was fighting to keep the bus from falling.
George arrived home during the broadcast and stopped the moment he saw the bridge on the television. The sight of SWAT officers shielding Spider-Man made him release a breath, but his relief vanished when the reporter confirmed that the masked hero had been shot. "This is exactly what we were afraid of when we learned about the hit," George muttered as he removed his coat. "Every lunatic who wants that five million is either already in New York or on the way here."
The room fell silent, and George froze when he realized what he had revealed. Helen slowly turned away from the television and asked, "What hit?" while Gwen stared at her father with sudden understanding. George tried to dismiss the statement as confidential police business, but Gwen stood and demanded, "Someone put five million dollars on Spider-Man's life?" Her voice trembled despite her attempt to remain calm.
George sighed and looked toward the broadcast before answering carefully. "Hammerhead opened a contract, and it reached criminal networks across the world," he admitted. "We have reason to believe assassins, mercenaries, and metahumans are already entering the city. Spider-Man warned us last night because he believed they might endanger civilians and police officers while trying to reach him."
Gwen looked down at the unanswered messages on her phone as every excuse Peter had made suddenly became clear. He had not been distancing himself because she had done something wrong or because he no longer wanted to see her. Peter had learned that an army of killers was coming after him and decided to push her away rather than allow her to share the danger. Understanding his reason did nothing to lessen the fear or anger growing inside her.
Peter sat on the rear step of an ambulance while a paramedic pressed a trauma pad against the bullet wound in his shoulder. His mask remained in place, and the torn fabric had been folded aside so the injury could be cleaned without exposing anything else. "The round passed through without hitting bone, but you need stitches and several hours of rest," the paramedic warned. Peter looked toward the rescued bus passengers and replied, "I can probably guarantee one of those things."
A violent warning suddenly exploded through Peter's spider-sense, sharper than anything he had felt during the bridge ambush. "Everybody get down!" he shouted as he shoved the paramedic behind the ambulance and threw himself sideways. A suppressed gunshot reached them a moment later, and a high-powered bullet struck the ambulance where Peter's head had been. SWAT officers immediately raised their shields and pulled the remaining paramedics behind cover.
Peter landed on one knee and studied the deep hole punched through the side of the ambulance. He noted the angle of the impact, traced it across the bridge, and looked toward the distant buildings rising above Washington Heights. Sunlight briefly reflected from something near the edge of a rooftop before vanishing. "Sniper, tall building northeast of the bridge," Peter warned as he pointed toward the fading glint.
The SWAT commander ordered his officers to remain under cover while he requested aviation support, but Peter was already moving. He vaulted over the side of the bridge and dropped toward the river, disappearing beneath the roadway before the sniper could find another angle. A web line caught the underside of the bridge and carried him toward Manhattan. Once he reached the city, he swung through narrow alleys and between closely packed buildings, using brick walls and fire escapes as cover.
Peter approached the sniper's building from the opposite direction and climbed the rear wall beneath the cover of an alley. His spider-sense remained active as he crawled past the rooftop ledge and searched for tripwires, explosives, or additional shooters. He found a thin laser stretched across the roof-access door and avoided the explosive charge connected to it. Whoever had fired from the rooftop had expected the police to enter through the stairwell.
Peter crept over the ledge and spotted an abandoned sniper rifle positioned near the opposite side of the roof. The weapon was still aimed toward the bridge, but the shooter was nowhere near it. Peter's spider-sense suddenly surged, and he twisted aside as a pistol round passed beside his head. A tall armored man stepped from behind a ventilation unit wearing a mask divided between orange and black.
The man fired twice more while advancing, forcing Peter to flip backward across the rooftop. "You reached me faster than projected," he observed as he lowered the pistol. "Most targets would have waited for police support." Peter straightened and glanced toward the sniper rifle before answering, "Most targets probably don't stick to walls. It saves a lot of time on the stairs."
The armored man drew a long sword from his back and held the pistol at his side. "I am Deathstroke," he announced as he shifted into a fighting stance. Peter raised both hands and replied, "I'd tell you my name, but I'm pretty sure you already know who I am." Deathstroke tilted his head slightly and answered, "Spider-Man is the only name required for the contract."
Deathstroke fired his pistol while simultaneously throwing a metal disc toward Peter's feet. Peter avoided the bullet, but the disc released a burst of light and sound that briefly overwhelmed his senses. Deathstroke closed the distance and swung his sword toward Peter's injured shoulder, forcing him to bend beneath the blade. The edge sliced through one of Peter's web lines as easily as thread.
Peter fired webbing over the pistol and pulled sharply, tearing the weapon from Deathstroke's hand and sending it over the side of the building. Deathstroke immediately drew a second pistol from beneath his arm and fired at the rooftop beside Peter, creating a dangerous ricochet. Peter twisted away from the rebounding bullet and webbed the second pistol's slide shut. "You carry enough guns for an entire team," Peter said. "Did the other assassins call in sick?"
Deathstroke discarded the useless weapon and attacked with his sword, directing every swing toward Peter's wounded shoulder. Peter avoided the first three strikes before catching the flat of the blade between his palms. Deathstroke struck the wound with his armored elbow, forcing Peter to release it, but Peter attached a web to the handle during the exchange. He pulled the sword from Deathstroke's grip and webbed it against a distant air-conditioning unit.
Deathstroke drew a collapsible staff from his back and extended it with a sharp metallic snap. Electricity crackled across its surface as he swung it toward Peter's ribs, but Peter jumped over the attack and landed behind him. A web line wrapped around the center of the staff, allowing Peter to rip it away and pin it beside the sword. "Gun, sword, and electric stick," Peter said. "Are you trying to kill me or demonstrate the world's most violent utility belt?"
Deathstroke threw three knives as he retreated, using the first two to guide Peter into the path of the third. Peter twisted between them and webbed the throwing hand before a fourth blade could leave Deathstroke's fingers. He yanked the remaining knife free, then tore the utility belt from Deathstroke's waist before any grenades could be activated. The belt and every remaining blade were quickly sealed inside a thick web cocoon.
With his firearms, sword, staff, knives, and explosives scattered across the rooftop, Deathstroke stopped reaching for weapons. He tore the webbing from his wrist, lowered himself into a compact stance, and raised his fists. "Weapons were never my greatest advantage," he warned. Peter flexed his injured shoulder and answered, "That's encouraging, because I was starting to think your greatest power was carrying luggage."
Deathstroke crossed the distance and struck Peter twice in the ribs before driving a knee into his stomach. Peter blocked the next punch, but Deathstroke changed direction and landed a spinning kick against the side of his head. Every movement was precise and aimed toward a vulnerable point, allowing the assassin's experience to briefly overcome Peter's greater speed. Peter tried to match his stance and technique, only to receive another strike directly against his wounded shoulder.
Peter answered with a right hook, but Deathstroke slipped inside the attack and drove an elbow into his chest. Peter caught the following punch and attempted the same counter, yet Deathstroke anticipated it and swept his legs from beneath him. "You have extraordinary physical abilities but limited training," Deathstroke observed as Peter rolled back to his feet. "Trying to fight me on equal terms is a mistake."
They exchanged another rapid series of blows near the center of the roof, with Peter blocking several strikes but taking two more to his ribs. He realized Deathstroke wanted him focused on proving that he could win a technical fight, where years of experience gave the assassin his greatest advantage. Peter glanced toward his web-shooters and decided there was no reason to keep matching him hand to hand. "You know what?" Peter said as he jumped backward. "You're absolutely right."
Deathstroke stepped forward to continue the fight, and Peter fired two web lines directly over his boots. The reinforced webbing glued both of Deathstroke's feet to the rooftop before he could lift either one. His momentum carried his upper body forward while his feet remained trapped, causing him to fall flat onto the concrete. Peter wasted no time and immediately covered Deathstroke's torso and arms with several thick layers of webbing.
Deathstroke strained against the restraints, but Peter added more webbing around his shoulders, waist, and wrists before he could reach any hidden equipment. "You stopped trying to match my technique," Deathstroke said as Peter secured his legs. Peter pressed another web over the armored gauntlets and replied, "I remembered I can stick people to buildings. Sometimes the simplest answer really is the best one."
Peter searched Deathstroke carefully and removed two concealed blades, a wire garrote, and a small explosive hidden beneath his chest armor. Each item was webbed into a separate bundle far beyond the assassin's reach. Deathstroke tested the cocoon again before realizing that brute force would not break it quickly enough. "You adapted faster then thought," he admitted.
Deathstroke stared at him through the single eye of his mask and warned that their next encounter would end differently. Peter added one final layer of webbing across his torso and said, "There it is the traditional defeated-assassin promise."
Peter contacted the SWAT team on the bridge and gave them the rooftop location, warning them that Deathstroke was far more dangerous than the earlier attackers. He disabled the explosive attached to the roof-access door and arranged every confiscated weapon where the police could collect it safely. Only after approaching sirens became audible did Peter allow himself to sit beside the ledge. Kite Man had been an inconvenience and the bridge gunmen had been reckless amateurs, but Deathstroke proved that the real hunters had finally reached New York.
Four days after disappearing from Oscorp, Norman Osborn woke on the floor of his private study. His shirt was torn, dried blood covered one sleeve, and the smell of smoke clung to his skin. He pulled himself upright against the desk and searched his body for an injury, but he could not find a single wound. Norman's last clear memory was ordering the lead scientist to prepare the experimental serum.
Everything after the injection existed only as scattered images that vanished whenever he tried to concentrate on them. Norman remembered green light reflecting across a laboratory window, an engine roaring beneath his feet, and a masked figure swinging through fire. Somewhere inside those broken memories, someone had been laughing. The voice disturbed him because it sounded exactly like his own.
Norman found his phone beneath an overturned chair and connected it to a charger. The screen immediately filled with notifications, revealing more than eighty missed calls from Oscorp's board of directors, legal department, and security division. Several messages warned him that an emergency board meeting had already been scheduled. Another sixteen missed calls had come from Harry.
He opened the board's messages first and discovered that Oscorp had lost its military contract. After the serum failed to meet the government's deadline, the entire project had been transferred to LexCorp. Lex Luthor's company would receive Oscorp's remaining funding, military access, and permission to continue developing the enhanced-soldier formula. Oscorp's stock had fallen sharply within hours of the announcement.
"They gave my work to Luthor," Norman muttered as he crushed the corner of his phone between his fingers. The military accused Oscorp of hiding unstable test results and failing to maintain control of its restricted research division. Several board members were already discussing whether Norman should temporarily step down as CEO. Their final message demanded that he explain his absence before the meeting began.
A voicemail from Oscorp's legal director revealed an even greater problem. "Mr. Osborn, the police have sealed the laboratory where the serum was developed," the nervous man explained. "One of the lead scientists was found dead inside, and the medical examiner believes he was murdered four days ago. Your identification was used to enter the facility shortly before the estimated time of death."
Norman stared at the dried blood covering his sleeve as the message continued. The laboratory's security cameras had been destroyed, several research files were missing, and signs of a violent struggle had been found near the serum chamber. Investigators were searching for Norman because no employee had seen him since the scientist died. Oscorp's attorneys had repeatedly warned him not to speak with the police without them present.
Norman tried to remember what happened inside the laboratory, but a sharp pain stabbed through his head. For a second he saw a frightened man being lifted from the floor by the throat before a body crashed through a glass cabinet. The image disappeared before Norman could recognize either face. He convinced himself that it was only a nightmare caused by the experimental serum.
His phone started ringing, and Harry's name appeared across the screen. Norman answered the video call to find his son standing on a hotel balcony with several old European buildings visible behind him. "Dad, where have you been?" Harry demanded, relief quickly mixing with anger. "I've called you every day, and nobody at Oscorp knew where you were."
Norman studied the unfamiliar scenery before asking, "Where are you?" Harry stared at him in confusion and answered, "I'm in Europe, Dad. You sent me on this summer program, remember?" He explained that the group had already visited London and Berlin before traveling to Switzerland. They were supposed to spend the rest of the summer visiting research centers across France and Italy.
"I know you're in Europe. I meant which city," Norman claimed, hiding the fact that he had forgotten the entire trip. Harry told him that he was in Geneva and reminded Norman about a presentation scheduled for the following afternoon. "You promised you would watch it online," Harry added quietly. "I thought you forgot after you stopped answering me."
"I haven't forgotten," Norman assured him, although he had not remembered the presentation until that moment. He claimed that a confidential emergency at Oscorp had prevented him from contacting anyone. Harry glanced at Norman's torn shirt and asked whether the emergency involved the scientist found dead in the laboratory. The question made Norman look down at the blood on his sleeve again.
"They're talking about it on the news here," Harry explained. "They said Oscorp lost the military contract to LexCorp, and the police are investigating the lab for murder." He asked Norman whether the dead scientist had worked directly for him. Norman answered that hundreds of scientists worked beneath him and insisted that he had nothing to do with the man's death.
Harry remained silent before asking, "Are you in trouble?" Another broken image passed through Norman's mind his hand closing around someone's throat while a terrified voice begged him to stop. He forced the image away and replied, "Oscorp is facing difficulties, but I will handle them. You do not need to concern yourself with company business."
Norman looked at Harry for several seconds before making a decision. "You're coming back to New York," he announced. "You can finish the current part of the program, but I want you home before the school year begins. Until everything at Oscorp dies down, you'll attend school here in the city where I can keep an eye on you."
Harry frowned and asked, "You're transferring me without even talking to me first?" Norman explained that reporters and investigators would soon begin searching for anyone connected to the Osborn family. He refused to leave Harry on another continent while Oscorp's enemies looked for weaknesses. "This is not a punishment," Norman said. "I need my son close to home until I know what we're dealing with."
Harry looked disappointed, but Norman could also see the relief he was attempting to hide. "Does that mean you'll actually be home?" he asked. The question silenced Norman longer than any accusation about the contract or murdered scientist had managed. "Yes," Norman finally promised. "When you return to New York, things will be different."
Harry reminded him once again about the presentation and made Norman promise to answer the next time he called. Before ending the call, Harry quietly said, "I miss you, Dad." Norman's expression softened as he answered, "I miss you too, Harry. I'll have the travel arrangements sent to you once I know when your group reaches France."
Once the screen went dark, Norman called Oscorp's legal director and ordered him to arrange an emergency meeting with the board. He instructed the company to challenge the transfer of the contract to LexCorp and prevent investigators from taking anything beyond what their warrant allowed. The attorney warned that the police would demand an explanation for Norman's four-day absence. Norman replied that he had suffered a private medical emergency and remembered nothing connected to the murder.
Norman changed into clean clothes and placed the bloodstained shirt inside a locked drawer instead of throwing it away. As he closed it, he noticed several deep scratches across his desk and a dried bloody handprint beside the hidden elevator. His fingers fit the print perfectly. Norman quickly pulled his hand away, refusing to accept what the evidence suggested.
He turned toward the mirror and saw his reflection smiling even though his own face remained still. "They stole our contract," a voice whispered from somewhere inside his mind. "They entered our laboratory, and now they think they can take our company." Norman spun around, but he was alone in the study.
By the time the sun began sinking behind the Manhattan skyline, the police had taken Deathstroke into custody and transported him inside an armored convoy. Peter remained nearby long enough to make certain none of the assassin's weapons were overlooked. His shoulder had already begun healing, but every movement still sent a dull ache through his arm. He considered ending his patrol early until police sirens drew his attention several blocks south.
Peter reached the location and found a group of gangsters surrounding an overturned delivery truck outside a closed electronics store. Several men loaded stolen equipment into two vans while the others threatened the driver and nearby witnesses with handguns. Their lookout noticed Peter perched on a streetlight and raised his weapon. "Spider-Man!" the man shouted, warning the others before firing.
Peter jumped as the bullet struck the light beneath him, then fired a web that ripped the gun from the man's hand. "You know, most people wait until after dark before committing obvious crimes," Peter said as he landed on the van. "The sunset is beautiful, though. I appreciate you choosing a robbery with good lighting."
Three gangsters opened fire while Peter flipped behind the vehicle, allowing the bullets to tear through their own van's doors. He shot webbing across the barrels of two weapons before pulling both men into each other. A third rushed him with a metal pipe, only for Peter to duck and web the attacker's shoes to the pavement. "Careful," Peter warned as the man fell forward. "Running with construction equipment is how accidents happen."
Two more gangsters tried escaping with the stolen truck, but Peter webbed its rear axle to a streetlight. The vehicle accelerated several feet before the webbing snapped tight and lifted its back wheels from the road. Peter pulled open the driver's door, webbed the man to his seat, and removed the keys. "I'm going to assume none of you paid for the premium roadside assistance package."
The gangsters surrounding the delivery driver attempted to use him as a shield. Peter fired a web over the hostage's shoulder and pulled the nearest gun away before either criminal could react. He crossed the distance in a single jump, struck one man in the chest, and swept the other man's legs from beneath him. Within seconds, both criminals were hanging upside down from a street sign beside the rest of their group.
Police cars arrived as the last light disappeared between the buildings. Peter gave the officers a quick explanation, pointed out the weapons webbed beneath the van, and identified the delivery driver as the only injured civilian. One officer noticed the torn fabric around Peter's shoulder and asked whether he needed another ambulance. "I've already reached my daily limit for awkward medical conversations," Peter replied before swinging away.
Peter traveled in the opposite direction from his home and repeatedly changed course between neighborhoods. He doubled back across several rooftops, circled a water tower twice, and spent ten minutes watching the streets from beneath an apartment ledge. Nobody appeared to be following him, but Deathstroke's attack had proven that professional hunters could remain invisible until they decided to strike. Peter refused to lead one of them anywhere near Aunt May or MJ.
Several miles from home, Peter dropped into a narrow service alley beside an elevated subway line. He waited until the nearby street was empty before entering through an unlocked maintenance gate and crawling along the ceiling above the tracks. The vibrations in the rails warned him whenever a train approached, allowing him to press himself safely into a recessed section of the tunnel. Anyone tracking him from the rooftops would believe he had continued deeper into the subway system.
Peter reached an abandoned maintenance alcove hidden behind several rusted electrical cabinets. After checking for cameras, workers, and movement in both directions, he removed his mask and changed into the clothes inside his backpack. He folded the damaged suit carefully, placed it beneath his camera, and pulled a sweatshirt over the bandage covering his shoulder. "Nothing suspicious about a teenager leaving a subway tunnel after dark," he whispered. "Perfectly normal New York behavior."
Instead of entering a station, Peter followed a narrow maintenance tunnel running beneath several city blocks. The passage ended behind a utility building near an old ventilation shaft, where a steel ladder led to a locked street-level hatch. Peter forced the rusted mechanism open just enough to slip through, then closed it carefully behind him. He emerged in another alley more than a mile from where Spider-Man had disappeared.
Peter spent another twenty minutes walking through crowded streets and using store windows to check whether anyone remained behind him. He entered one convenience store through the front, left through a side exit, and rode a city bus for several stops before continuing on foot. By the time he reached his neighborhood, he was satisfied that nobody had followed him. His body was exhausted, and the ache in his shoulder had spread down his arm.
The house was quiet when Peter unlocked the door and stepped inside. Aunt May had left a covered plate for him in the refrigerator, along with a note reminding him not to stay out so late. Peter smiled as he read it, then quietly climbed the stairs and entered his bedroom. Only after locking the door did he remove the bloody bandage and examine how much the bullet wound had healed.