The New York skyline, usually a vibrant canvas of electric glow, was smudged with the fading hues of dusk, turning the glass towers into solemn monuments against a bruised sky. I perched on the edge of a forgotten water tower, the cold metal seeping through my suit, watching the city exhale its last breath of daylight. Below, the urban song of honking cabs and distant sirens provided an odd, comforting hum.
Tonight, however, I wasn't alone.
"Thank you for meeting me, Spider-Man," Whitney began, her voice calm, professional, yet edged with something I couldn't quite place. She pressed a button, a tiny red light confirming the recording was live. "I know you're busy, especially now."
I nodded, though she couldn't see it beneath the mask. "Always a pleasure, Whitney. Though I prefer my interviews to be less… existential."
Whitney didn't crack a smile. Her gaze, though fixed on the red eyes of my mask, felt like it was peering right through me. "Let's cut to it, then. Hawkeye. Found unconscious, critical condition. The doctors are still unsure if he'll fully recover without permanent injuries."
A jolt went through me, sharp and cold. My fingers, resting on my knees, twitched. Hawkeye. Clint. A good man, a sharp shooter. The image of him, still and pale, flashed in my mind. He'd been hit hard, too hard.
"And then there's Iceman," Whitney continued, her voice gaining a slight edge, a subtle shift in tone that told me she was building to something. "Iceman only recently got out of a coma. Its still unsure when he'll return to hero work."
My internal alarm bells, the ones that usually just gave me a tingle when a mugger was about to jump out, were screaming now. These weren't random attacks. They were surgical, brutal, effective. And I knew who was responsible. Taskmaster.
Whitney leaned forward, her voice dropping, becoming more direct. "Spider-Man, these aren't random street-level incidents. These are high-profile individuals, Avengers. Symbols. Are these attacks connected?"
The question hung in the cool evening air, heavy and undeniable. Yes, Whitney. They are. The truth burned on my tongue, a bitter taste. But the words couldn't form. I was bound. Bound by Avengers protocols, by Stark's hushed warnings about panic, by Captain America's grim determination to handle this internally. And by my own ingrained sense of responsibility to the greater good, even when that good felt like a lie.
"The investigations are ongoing, Whitney," I recited, the words sounding hollow even to my own ears. "The Avengers are working closely with S.H.I.E.L.D. and relevant authorities. We're following every lead, exploring every possibility." I shifted, adjusting my mask, the subtle movement an attempt to ground myself, to control the tremor that was starting in my hands. I ran a gloved thumb over the lenses, a nervous habit. "You know how these things are. Classified information, ongoing threat assessments, all that jazz." I tried for a light, dismissive tone, but it fell flat.
Whitney's head cocked slightly. She was good, too good. She picked up on the nuances, the forced casualness, the slight tension in my shoulders. Her tone softened, shifting from the assertive journalist to something more empathetic. "Are you worried, Spider-Man?"
The question caught me off guard. Worried? About what? I almost laughed. Almost. Instead, I forced out a chuckle, a little too loud, a little too brittle. "Worried? Me? Nah, Whitney. I'm a paragon of composure. My blood pressure is probably lower than a flat tire. Besides, 'worried' implies I'm not having a blast out here, swinging through the concrete jungle, fighting crime, and generally being awesome. It's all part of the job description, you know? Just another Tuesday."
I waved a hand dismissively, an attempt to brush off the question, to divert. But inside, a cold, hard knot of dread tightened in my gut. Worried? If Iceman, a literal elemental force, could be taken down like that… if Hawkeye, one of the most precise and experienced marksmen on the planet, could be incapacitated… then what about me? I wasn't an Avenger in the same league as them. I was just—me. The friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. A kid from Queens who got bit by a radioactive spider. My powers were… different.
Am I next? The thought was a whisper of ice in my mind.
I turned my head away, pretending to scan the city, my eyes unfocused on the distant lights. The familiar hum of my spider-sense, usually a distinct thrum before danger, was a faint, almost imperceptible tremor beneath the surface of my consciousness. It wasn't a specific warning, not yet. But it was there, a low, persistent hum, like a distant engine, always running. It was an anticipatory anxiety, a warning of what might be coming, a subtle confirmation of the fear I was trying so hard to hide.
"You're a terrible liar, Spider-Man." Whitney's voice was softer now, devoid of journalistic pretense. I heard a soft click. My head snapped back. She'd turned off her recorder. The red light was gone.
Now, it was just Whitney Chang and me, two solitary figures on a rooftop, silhouetted against the encroaching night. The air immediately felt different, heavier, more intimate.
"Look," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "I'm not asking as a reporter right now. I'm asking as… someone who lives here. Someone who sees what's happening. These attacks… they're not just targeting heroes, are they?" She paused, her gaze unwavering. "They're targeting hope. They're targeting the idea that someone is out there, watching, protecting. And frankly," her voice wavered, just for a second, a flicker of raw emotion, "it's terrifying. I'm scared too."
Her words hit me like a physical blow. Not because they were unexpected, but because they were true. This wasn't just about me, or the Avengers. It was about them. The millions of people below, oblivious, or perhaps just trying to be. The people I swore to protect.
"If something's coming," she continued, her voice finding its strength again, "we deserve to know. People need to be ready. Even if it's just to understand. To brace for impact." She leaned further in, her eyes pleading. "Please, Spider-Man. What aren't you telling us?"
The silence stretched, filled only by the distant city rumble. My mind raced. The public needed to know. My gut screamed it. But orders. Diplomacy. Strategy. The greater good. All the nebulous concepts that felt so far removed from the actual blood and pain of a hero laid low. If I spoke out, I could be undermining everything the Avengers were trying to do. I could be putting myself and others at risk.
My Uncle Ben's words echoed again, a constant torment. With great power comes great responsibility. And a part of that responsibility, I'd always believed, was transparency, honesty. But what if honesty led to chaos? What if it led to more innocent lives lost?
I took a deep breath, the cold air scraping my throat. "Whitney," I said, my voice low and strained. "I can't. Not yet. There are… protocols. Sensitive information. We're dealing with something very dangerous. Revealing too much, too soon, could make things worse, not better." My words were carefully chosen, designed to be vague, to reassure without revealing. It felt like choking on sand.
"But…" I continued, my voice firming, the words a vow to myself as much as to her. This wasn't just a line. This was a promise. A burden I was willing to carry, even if it broke me. "I promise you this, Whitney. On everything I hold dear. I won't let anyone else fall. I won't."
The weight of that vow settled on me, a crushing tonnage. Hawkeye. Iceman. My failures. My perceived failures. Uncle Ben. 3D-Man. Every single person I had ever failed to protect, their faces flickered and burned behind my eyes. This promise wasn't just for Whitney. It was for them. A desperate, almost insane determination not to repeat the past. No matter what it cost me. No matter how much it hurt.
Without another word, I pushed off the water tower edge, the familiar rush of wind a momentary distraction from the turmoil in my head. I shot a web line, swinging out into the vast, glittering expanse of the city. Below, I could see Whitney, a small figure on the rooftop, still kneeling, her recording device dark, her expression unreadable in the fading light. Uncertain.
The wind tore at my suit as I swung, faster and faster, a blur against the skyscraper canyons. My earlier bravado, my glib jokes, had evaporated into the night air. All that remained was the chilling reality.
The danger was rising. Every streetlamp I passed seemed to gleam with a hostile intensity, every shadowed alley seemed to hold a hidden threat. Taskmaster wasn't just an assassin; he was a strategic genius, systematically undermining the very fabric of public safety. He was learning. He was adapting. And he was getting closer.
The silence I was forced to keep was no longer just a tactical inconvenience; it was a lead weight in my chest. Each swing felt heavier, each beat of my heart a painful thrum against my ribs. Knowing what I knew, seeing the pattern emerge, and being unable to warn the people I swore to protect… it felt like a betrayal.
And the quiet worry… it wasn't so quiet anymore. It was a gnawing anxiety, a cold certainty that seeped into my bones. If Clint and Bobby, heroes whose skill and power far exceeded mine, could be brought down with such brutal efficiency, then what chance did I have? I was powerful, yes. Resilient, sure. But I was also just Peter.
The city lights blurred into streaks of color as I pushed myself harder, faster. I was a fleeting shadow, a silent guardian, propelled by a desperate vow. I wouldn't let anyone else fall. I couldn't. Even if it meant I was the next one to hit the ground.