The ache was a dull, grinding symphony in my ribs, a parting gift from the Hypno-Hustler. And it hurts. A lot. It was a constant, throbbing reminder that under the suit, there was just me—Peter Parker, a collection of bones and anxieties held together by sheer stubbornness and a bit of adhesive webbing.
Across the small café table, Elaine laughed, a sound like wind chimes that momentarily silenced the orchestra in my chest. Her smile was the one thing in my life that felt uncomplicated. The rich aroma of roasted coffee beans, the gentle warmth of her hand resting over mine, the late afternoon sun slanting through the window—this was the normal I fought for. This was the moment I was trying to steal back from the chaos.
"You're a million miles away," she said, her thumb tracing a circle on my knuckles.
I forced a smile, trying to anchor myself to her. "Sorry. Just… long week trying to not look like an idiot to Mr. Stark." It was a flimsy excuse, but it was the only currency I had in this world.
"You need a break, Pete. A real one. No weird lab experiments, no last-minute excuses."
Before I could answer, the flat-screen TV mounted in the corner of the café cut from a car commercial to a breaking news report. The anchor's face was grim.
"We have confirmed reports from S.H.I.E.L.D. that Avenger and decorated operative Natasha Romanoff, also known as the Black Widow, has been hospitalized following a violent ambush at a higher up party three weeks ago. Her condition is listed as critical but stable."
Elaine gasped, her hand tightening on mine. "Oh my god. Black Widow? Who could possibly…?"
But I barely heard her. The coffee in my mouth turned to ash. I'd known about Natasha for weeks. They'd kept it quiet, hoping to draw the attacker out. But now it was public. Now it wasn't just a rumour; it was a headline. The screen flashed images—a stoic photo of Hawkeye, his arm in a complex-looking sling from an "equipment malfunction" a month ago. A picture of the park where Iceman was defeated, showing the aftermath.
They weren't random incidents. They were data points on a terrifying graph, and the line was pointing up. Hawkeye. Iceman. Black Widow. All masters of their craft, all surgically taken down, their specific skill sets turned against them. My ribs gave a sharp, painful throb, a premonition disguised as an old injury. Someone wasn't just fighting heroes. They were collecting them. And the list was getting longer.
The city was a sprawling circuit board of light and shadow beneath me. The wind that whipped past my mask was cold, but the dread coiling in my gut was colder. Swinging was usually a release, a high-velocity meditation that cleared my head. Tonight, every arc and dive only served to tighten the knot of fear.
This was calculated. Precise. This was the work of a predator.
Taskmaster.
The name echoed in my thoughts, a whisper of professional dread. I'd only read the files, seen the grainy security footage. He was a scholar of violence, a man who learned by watching. He could replicate Captain America's shield throw after seeing it once, mimic Natasha's acrobatic grace. He didn't just fight; he dissected, memorized, and perfected. He wasn't hunting randomly; he was building a curriculum. Hawkeye was a lesson in ranged combat. Iceman, in elemental power control. Black Widow… she was the masterclass in espionage and close-quarters combat. He wasn't just beating them; he was learning from them, adding their strengths to his own terrifying repertoire.
What scared me most was the silence from the top. Why hadn't the Avengers tracked him down? Tony's satellites could read the brand name on a lost button in Antarctica. S.H.I.E.L.D. had eyes everywhere. The silence meant one of two things: either they couldn't find him, or he was so good at covering his tracks that he was practically a ghost. A more terrifying thought wormed its way into my brain: he was deliberately avoiding them. He wasn't stupid enough to pick a fight with Thor or the Hulk. He was working his way up the food chain, picking off the wolves before going after the bears. And where did that leave me? Somewhere uncomfortably in the middle.
A scream from a dark alley below cut through my rumination. My body reacted before my brain finished processing the risk. I dropped, sticking to the brick wall, and peered into the gloom. Three guys, one with a knife, cornering a tourist clutching a purse. The banality of it was almost insulting.
"Really, guys?" I called out, dropping to the ground with a soft thud. "It's a Tuesday. Don't you have anything better to do? Binge-watching something, maybe?"
The one with the knife turned, his eyes wide. "It's the bug!"
I sighed. "You're thinking of an insect. Arachnids are an entirely different phylum. Now, hand over the knife and let's all go home before you have to explain to a nice police officer why you smell faintly of desperation and cheap cologne."
He lunged. I sidestepped, webbed the knife out of his hand, and stuck him to the wall by his ankles. His friends tried to run. One got a web-bolas to the legs; the other found his shoes permanently glued to the pavement. It was over in ten seconds. Pure muscle memory.
As I returned the purse to the shaken but grateful tourist, the ache in my ribs flared again. It was a stupid, necessary act. This is who I was. I couldn't stop, couldn't hide, even knowing that every public appearance was another entry in Taskmaster's textbook. Every move I made was another page he could study.
The feeling started as a low hum at the base of my skull, the first faint whisper of my spider-sense. It wasn't the sharp, stabbing alarm of imminent danger, but a persistent, low-grade thrum of wrongness. I was crouched on the gargoyle of a pre-war building, scanning the financial district. The city was never truly quiet, but this block was different. It was silent. No distant sirens, no rumble of the subway, no chatter from the streets below. An unnatural, curated silence.
My eyes swept the rooftops across the street. A glint of light. I focused, my lenses zooming in. Broken glass. Not the scattered mess of a vandal, but a neat pile, swept into a corner. The kind of debris you'd clear away to make a comfortable, concealed lookout post. My hum of anxiety sharpened into a distinct buzz.
I pushed off, swinging low and fast, using the buildings as cover. I landed silently on another rooftop, two blocks down. As I straightened up, a flicker of movement caught my eye. A pinprick of crimson light danced across the brick chimney next to me for less than a second before vanishing. A laser sight. Not a sniper—a shot would have followed. This was a spotter. Someone was tracking me. Logging my patrol route.
The trap wasn't being set. I was already in it.
He wasn't waiting for me to stumble into his path. He had been preparing the battlefield for days, maybe weeks. The broken glass, the spotter, the dead-zone silence—it was all bait. He was corralling me, herding me toward a location of his choosing. My stomach twisted. I wasn't the hunter on patrol; I was the prey being flushed from cover. Every shadow seemed to stretch, every rooftop held a potential enemy. The entire city had become a cage, and I'd just realized the door had slammed shut behind me.
I could run. Swing for Queens, bury myself in my room, and pretend none of this was happening. But he'd just find another target. Maybe Shadow. Maybe even Captain America. He wouldn't stop. The only way out was through. Fine. If he wanted a final exam, I'd be happy to grade him. I changed my trajectory, swinging deliberately toward a massive, half-finished construction yard on the waterfront—a skeleton of steel girders and concrete floors. Isolated. Full of obstacles and sightlines. A perfect arena.
I landed softly on a stack of drywall in the center of the yard, the dust barely stirring around my feet. The air was still and heavy with the smell of wet concrete and rust. My spider-sense was a roaring siren inside my head now, a constant, deafening scream of DANGER. I stood perfectly still, web-shooters primed, my head on a slow swivel.
"You chose the location," a voice said, calm and synthesized, echoing slightly off the steel beams. "Predictable. You always want to control the environment. Leverage your agility."
He stepped out from behind a concrete support pillar, not with a dramatic flourish, but with the casual confidence of a man walking into his own office. The Taskmaster. He was exactly as the files described. Armored in tactical gear, a skull-like mask concealing his face. Captain America's shield was strapped to his back, a compound bow that looked suspiciously like Hawkeye's was slung over his shoulder, and a longsword was sheathed at his hip. He was a walking, talking library of my fallen friends.
"I've beaten your friends. Learned their tricks," he said, his voice devoid of any emotion. He took another step forward, his movements fluid and economical. "The archer who never misses. The spy who was never seen. But you, Spider-Man—you're the next question that needs an answer."
My heart was a frantic drum against my tender ribs, but I forced the fear down, cloaking it in bravado. It was my only armor.
"Funny," I shot back, my voice tight. "You sound like the guy who's about to flunk."
He didn't react to the taunt. He just stopped, about twenty feet away, and tilted his head. I could feel his gaze dissecting me, analyzing my stance, the tension in my shoulders, the position of my hands. Predator and prey, locked in a moment of perfect, terrifying stillness. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.
Then, with a speed that seemed impossible for his size, he moved. He didn't draw the bow or unsling the shield. He lunged, his right hand flashing to the sword at his hip. The metallic shing of the blade clearing its scabbard was the starting pistol for the end of my night.
The sword sliced through the air where my head had been a millisecond before. I twisted, my body already reacting, my spider-sense screaming, the first blow incoming like a bolt of lightning. The fight for my life had begun.