"Don't shoot!"
At that very moment, Aunt May's voice rang out.
But it was too late.
The Vulture was already lying in a pool of blood.
In that instant, Peter's mind was flooded with the gruesome memories of Uncle Ben and Urich's deaths.
He knew more than Aunt May.
He knew Uncle Ben hadn't just crossed the wrong factory owner and ended up dumped in an abandoned warehouse, mauled by stray dogs.
No. That factory owner had hired the Green Goblin. And it was the Goblin who dragged Uncle Ben there… and let the Vulture tear him apart piece by piece, alive.
By the time Peter found the body, only a blood-stained skeleton remained—save for the intact head, left behind so the family could identify him.
That kind of hatred—that kind of pain—how could he possibly let it go?
"You killed him?"
"You shot an unarmed man?"
"Who do you think you are?"
"You think you're above the law?"
Aunt May's voice trembled with disbelief as she stared at Peter, one question after another.
Peter had regained control of his body, but under her gaze and questioning, he didn't know how to respond.
"He… he would've killed you," he murmured.
"Killed me? So what—now I'm supposed to thank you? Is that what you want?" Aunt May snapped. Her voice was sharp, relentless.
Peter stood there in stunned silence. He didn't know what to say.
It was as if Aunt May could see straight through his black visor and into his soul. She paused for a second, visibly holding back more words. Then she turned away, her voice quieter, almost weary.
"Peter… I want you to understand something. In times like these, people like us are already barely hanging on. If we abandon rules, abandon what little order we have left, then we're no better than the monsters out there."
"We weren't meant to live in a world where people kill each other like animals."
Peter didn't respond.
He understood where she was coming from.
She, Uncle Ben, and his former self had all been powerless in this dark world—but they'd still tried to do what was right.
They stood up to corrupt businessmen who withheld wages, to pharmaceutical companies that raised prices for profit. They were like fireflies in the dark, trying to push back against the overwhelming shadow.
But what did that get them?
Uncle Ben was taken, tortured, devoured alive.
Aunt May had barely escaped the same fate.
And Peter himself had nearly been killed by the Goblin's men—not long ago. If it hadn't been for Urich, he'd be dead too.
"Ma'am, I understand what you're saying. But what you don't understand is… some people don't care about rules. But maybe—just maybe—they'll respect mine. And my rule… is violence."
People like Aunt May were meant to stand in the light and show others the way.
People like him? He was born to move in the shadows.
He was Peter—yes, the Peter from the 21st century.
But more than that, he was Spider-Man. Shadow Spider.
Peter turned away.
He had work to do.
He wasn't sure how time flowed between this world and his own, but based on what he'd figured out, he was likely connected through some form of quantum entanglement, his consciousness inhabiting this world's Shadow Spider.
If that was the case, time should be moving at the same pace in both places.
He had about four hours until morning back home. Tony Stark was supposed to visit then.
If he wrapped this up in time, he could make it back.
With that thought clear, he focused on his mission: taking down the Goblin's gang.
According to Urich's files, the people who could help him—Felicia and Jonah—were likely being held in the same place.
"The Meat Processing Plant."
Urich had called it "The Execution Room." A favorite hangout spot of the Goblin's crew.
Peter perched atop a nearby warehouse, spotting a skylight that was bolted shut.
But that wasn't a problem.
Gripping the metal edge, he pulled. With a crunch of bending steel, the skylight came loose in his hands. He casually tossed it aside—he wasn't about to worry about property damage.
And anyway, if things went to plan, there wouldn't be a Goblin gang left to complain by tomorrow.
Peter crawled down the wall, his acute hearing soon picking up voices.
He followed them—and saw exactly what he'd hoped for.
Two large cages.
One held a badly beaten J. Jonah Jameson, shackled and nearly unrecognizable.
The other held a large tiger—Kraven the Hunter's pet, if he remembered Urich's files correctly.
Standing in front of the cages were his targets:
Norman Osborn—the Green Goblin.
Kraven the Hunter.
And Felicia.
Felicia had been caught too.
"Oh, Felicia, my dear," the Goblin said, hands in his coat pockets. "What am I supposed to do with you?"
"Hmph. You can start by apologizing, Osborn," she replied coldly, her voice razor-sharp. "And then have one of your bootlickers call me a car."
"A car?" The Goblin chuckled darkly. "I admire the bravado, sweetheart. But that won't help you."
He gestured to Jameson's cage.
"Maybe ask Jonah how that attitude worked for him. He's been cursing me out all week, but he's still going to die—gutted like a pig."
Felicia turned, finally noticing Jameson. Her eyes widened in shock.
"What, surprised?" the Goblin sneered. "Ohhh—right. You think Spider-Man killed him a few hours ago, don't you?"
"Well, I know that little tidbit thanks to a friend at City Hall. But how did you know, hmm?"
"Let me guess, Felicia. You and Spider-Man have a little thing going on? He's your pet killer now? You sent him after Jonah?"
Felicia's face darkened.
"Just like you sent Jonah to kill Ben Urich, huh? You think you're the clever one here, Osborn?"
The Goblin's expression twisted.
"What did you just say?" he asked, voice suddenly cold.
He stared at her, eyes narrowing.
— End of chapter —