"Elaine?" I squeezed her shoulder. No response.
Around us, the entire crowd had fallen into the same strange trance. They were still swaying, but the movement was no longer joyful. It was mechanical, synchronized. Thousands of puppets jerking on invisible strings. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic, panicked drumbeat against the steady, insidious pulse of Hustler's music. He was controlling them. All of them.
And Elaine was one of them.
Panic clawed at my throat. I couldn't fight him here, not as Peter Parker. I couldn't reveal myself, and I couldn't protect anyone without the suit. My gaze darted around the arena, seeking an escape route, an shadow deep enough to hide a secret.
"Elaine, honey, stay right here," I whispered, my voice tight. It was a stupid, useless command. She was no longer listening. Her body was already moving, shuffling forward with the rest of the entranced mob, drawn toward the stage like a moth to a predatory flame.
I had to move. Slipping away from her felt like a betrayal, like leaving a part of myself behind, but I had no choice. I squeezed through the mesmerized bodies, muttering apologies that no one heard, and fought my way toward the stadium's outer ring. The concrete stairs leading to the upper levels were deserted, the sound of the concert echoing strangely in the empty corridor.
My backpack felt like it weighed a ton. I found a dark alcove behind a concession stand, the air thick with the smell of stale popcorn and disinfectant. My hands trembled as I unzipped the main compartment and pulled back a false bottom. There it was: the familiar red and blue, folded tight. The mask.
As I pulled the suit on, the cool, synthetic fabric a second skin against my own, a wave of bitter frustration washed over me. "One night," I muttered to the grimy wall, my voice a low growl. "Just one night off. But no, Hustler had to go and drop the bass and mind-control my girlfriend. Of course he did." The lenses of the mask snapped into place, and the world sharpened into a high-definition nightmare. Peter Parker was gone. The mask was back.
The steel girders of the lighting rig were cold under my fingers. From my perch high above the stage, the scene was even more unnerving. The crowd moved as one organism, their faces upturned and vacant, their movements perfectly in time with Hustler's commands. He was a conductor of minds, a maestro of manipulation, and he was reveling in it.
Time for a show-stopper.
I took a breath, aimed for a spotlight truss directly over the center stage, and launched myself into the air. The arc of my swing was perfect, a dramatic, silent pendulum cutting through the smoky haze. I landed with a soft thud on the rig, crouching in a classic pose, the spotlights catching the spider emblem on my chest.
A ripple of awareness spread through the first few rows. Gasps, pointing fingers. Then, a roar. It started as a cheer, a wave of genuine excitement. For a moment, they thought I was part of the act, a surprise guest star in Hustler's twisted concert.
Hustler, to his credit, didn't even flinch. He just smirked, a flash of white teeth in the purple glare, and leaned into the microphone, smoothly incorporating me into his performance.
"Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for our very special guest!" he boomed, his voice dripping with theatrical mockery. He gestured up at me with a flamboyant sweep of his arm. "The one, the only… Spider-Man!"
The cheers intensified, but they were different now. They were losing their individual voices, melting into a single, unified chant, driven by the pulsating frequency. As they chanted my name, Hustler twisted the large dial on his belt. The low hum intensified, and I felt a fresh wave of control wash over the audience below. Their cheers became more hollow, more synchronized. He was tightening his grip.
"Let's see if our friendly neighborhood hero can keep up with the beat!" Hustler taunted.
No more waiting. I fired two thick gobs of webbing directly at the source of his power: the belt. They shot through the air, silent and swift, but Hustler was already moving. He didn't just dodge; he grooved out of the way, a fluid, dance-like pirouette that was both infuriating and strangely graceful. He moved with the music, his entire fighting style a form of rhythmic expression. He wasn't just a villain with a gimmick; the gimmick was his entire being.
He spun on one heel, pointing a finger at the stage. "Get him, my pretties!"
That was the cue. The backup singers and dancers, their eyes as vacant as the crowd's, suddenly broke formation. They moved with a chilling, unnatural speed, swarming the base of the stage rigging. It wasn't a fight; it was an infestation. They weren't trying to hurt me with skill, just with sheer numbers. They were extensions of his will, a zombie choir moving to his hypnotic tune.
I dropped from the lighting rig, landing lightly on the stage. The moment my feet touched down, they were on me. A sequined backup singer lunged, her hands grasping like claws. I ducked under her arm, shot a web that glued her feet to the stage floor, and spun away, only to find myself face-to-face with a guitarist, his expression blank as he swung his instrument like a club.
My mind raced. I couldn't hit them. I couldn't hurt any of them. They were innocent, just puppets. My options were cripplingly limited.
I webbed the guitar to the man's chest, then yanked, sending him stumbling backward into two other dancers, creating a domino effect of entranced performers. I vaulted over a line of them, sticking a few to the giant speaker stacks with quick, sticky shots. It was slapstick and desperate, a chaotic ballet of non-lethal takedowns. My movements were a frantic improvisation against their synchronized assault. Juke left, web a hand to the wall. Flip backward, web two sets of feet together. But for every one I neutralized, two more would take their place, their hands grabbing at my suit, their collective weight threatening to drag me down. The stage was becoming a sticky, human trap.
And then I saw her.
My breath hitched. Elaine was on the stage. She must have been part of the first wave of fans to shamble up the stairs. She was moving slowly, deliberately, her eyes fixed on Hustler with that same terrifyingly blank devotion. She walked right past the chaos, past me, her path unerringly toward the villain at the center of it all.
A cold dread, sharper and more potent than any punch, seized me. If she reached him… if he got his hands on her… she would become a shield. A perfect, unbreakable shield, because he knew I would never, ever risk hurting her.
My every instinct screamed to get to her, to web her up and swing her to safety, miles away from this sonic poison. But the horde was too thick. They were a living wall between us. I fought with a new desperation, no longer just controlling the crowd, but trying to carve a path through it.
"Elaine!" I shouted, the name muffled by my mask. It was useless. She didn't even flicker.
Hustler saw the change in my focus. His grin widened, a predator sensing a fatal weakness. He saw Elaine, saw my frantic attempts to reach her, and understood everything. He held his hand out, not to her, but to the dial on his belt.
"Time for the bass drop," he said, his voice a low purr that I could barely hear over the thrumming.
He cranked the dial all the way.
The world dissolved into vibration.
It wasn't sound anymore. It was a concussion. A deep, gut-wrenching WUB-WUB-WUB that resonated in my bones, my organs, my very DNA. The floorboards beneath my feet vibrated so violently I could barely stand. The air itself seemed to liquefy. My vision swam, the strobe lights blurring into nauseating streaks of color.
And my spider-sense… it broke.
The reliable hum of danger, the directional warning system that had saved my life a thousand times, devolved into a single, high-pitched scream of pure static inside my head. It was white noise, a sensory overload that offered no information, only pain. My equilibrium vanished. The world tilted on its axis, a nauseating lurch that sent me stumbling. I felt a dozen pairs of hands grab me, pulling me down. I shook them off with a final, desperate surge of strength and fired a web-line upwards, hauling myself back onto the lighting rig I had started on.
I clung there, my knuckles white, my head pounding in time with the monstrous beat. My enhanced senses, usually my greatest asset, were now my undoing, turning the arena into a torture chamber. The world below was a blurry, distorted mess. I could barely make out the figures on the stage.
But I could hear them. Through the deafening bass, a new sound emerged. A chant. It started with Hustler, his voice amplified and triumphant, and was picked up by every single person in the arena. Thousands of voices, including, somewhere in that mess, Elaine's, joined together in perfect, hypnotic unison.
My vision swam, the edges turning dark. The last thing I saw clearly was Hustler, standing like a god in the center of his stage, one arm gesturing toward me, his face alight with victory. The chant grew louder, a wave of sound and vibration that threatened to shake me loose.
"Dance, Spider-Man, dance!"