Two days had passed since the Ghost's chaotic attack at the Imperial University foundation-laying ceremony. Ethan, still known publicly as Chen Lin'an, had finally caught up with the news reports detailing the bizarre events of that day.
Only now did the full picture come together. The man he and Venom nearly annihilated had resurfaced—this time, to carry out an attempted assassination on Wilson Fisk. Again, driven by cash. First a robbery at the Diamond Expo, now a hit on one of the most powerful figures in the criminal underworld.
"Figures," Ethan muttered as he leaned against the kitchen counter, skimming footage on his tablet. "The guy's basically the Dollar Store version of Taskmaster—no finesse, just greed."
From the surveillance snapshots and witness testimonies, it was clear that the Evil Ghost had no personal vendetta against Fisk. This wasn't a revenge plot—it was a contract job, pure and simple. If there had been true enmity, the Ghost would've ignored Spider-Man entirely and gone straight for the kill. But the drawn-out fight with Peter confirmed one thing: his priority wasn't vengeance—it was the paycheck.
As Ethan watched a TV news replay showing Spider-Man clinging to the Evil Ghost's glider, rising into the sky before ultimately crashing down, he finally pieced together what had happened.
"So that's why Peter dropped out of the sky like a sack of potatoes…" Ethan sighed. He could still picture the moment Peter slammed into the tree branch near the lecture hall. "Poor kid."
He paused, then added in his thoughts, You try so hard to act like nothing happened. But I saw through you. Venom told me everything—every twitch of your muscle, every involuntary grimace. You were in agony.
Still munching on toast, Ethan turned back to the TV just as the morning news broadcast rolled to its next headline. A museum robbery—unfolding surveillance footage from the previous night.
Onscreen, the security cam showed none other than Spider-Man crashing through a skylight at the American Museum of Natural History. In full costume, he tore through the exhibits, smashing display cases, and collecting priceless cultural artifacts. When the guards arrived, the figure subdued them with webbing, suspending three security officers from the ceiling.
The news anchor's voice was urgent and grave: "The perpetrator, dressed as Spider-Man, evaded capture. NYPD has issued a warrant for Spider-Man's arrest. Authorities are urging the vigilante to turn himself in."
"Pfft—!" Ethan choked, spraying milk across the kitchen counter.
Venom recoiled with a snarl, shaking the liquid off its black tendrils in disgust. "Disgusting."
Coughing and wiping his mouth, Ethan stared at the screen. "Wait… what? Spider-Man robbed a museum?"
Venom shook its head and responded dryly, "You saw what I saw. The footage doesn't lie—except, of course, when it does."
Ethan squinted, rewinding the video and playing it back in slow motion. "That's not Peter. It looks like him—suit's the same. But the moves are off. The muscle memory doesn't match. His web-swing was rigid. That landing? Sloppy. Peter's got fluid instincts. This guy's just copying the choreography."
"An imposter," Venom agreed, voice low. "Mimicking the real Spider-Man to ruin his name. Smart tactic. Crude execution."
Ethan crossed his arms, thinking. "This might be connected to Oscorp tech. Or someone's trying to discredit Peter… maybe to flush him out or destabilize his rep. Could even be Chameleon or Mysterio-level misdirection. If it's tech-based mimicry, that'd explain the suit match."
He glanced at the TV again. "Peter's going to be losing his mind right now. Poor guy just got his spine realigned by a villain on a hoverboard, and now he's being called a museum thief. I should really start developing some recovery serum. If I market it right, I could get Spider-Man to endorse it."
Venom chuckled. "Better hurry. At this rate, Spider-Man's going to need a chiropractor with superpowers."
Meanwhile, across Queens, Peter Parker was staring wide-eyed at the same broadcast in his cramped apartment. A bowl of cereal sat untouched beside him. The anchor's voice continued to accuse him as footage played on repeat.
His heart raced. "What the hell? I didn't do that! When would I have robbed a museum?"
He clutched his aching back and grimaced. The impact from two days ago was still throbbing—despite his accelerated healing. If he were a normal human, that crash would've snapped his spine in half.
He rubbed his temples. Great. First a psycho in a glider nearly kills me. Now I'm public enemy number one again.
Peter had experienced smear campaigns before—mostly courtesy of the Daily Bugle and its loudest critic, J. Jonah Jameson—but this? This was next-level sabotage.
"Someone's framing me," he said under his breath. "And I need to figure out who."
Because if Spider-Man's name was being dragged through the mud again, it wouldn't just affect Peter. It would affect everyone he protected.
And worse… it meant someone dangerous was out there wearing his face.
"Oh, Peter… this is terrible. Spider-Man actually robbed the museum."
Aunt May's voice was filled with disbelief as she stared at the TV screen in their modest Queens living room. Her wrinkled hand trembled slightly as she held a mug of tea, the news broadcast echoing from the television. Footage replayed on loop: a masked figure in red and blue shattering skylights, webbing up security guards, and escaping with priceless relics.
Peter froze in place beside her, still clutching his half-eaten toast. The footage was all too familiar—and all wrong.
Aunt May continued, worry knitting her brow. "Peter, you take those pictures of Spider-Man for that newspaper, don't you? He used to seem so… noble. But this? What if he's not who we thought he was?"
Then her tone shifted, that motherly concern surfacing as she turned toward him. "Son, maybe it's time to consider changing jobs. This Spider-Man is dangerous. What if he turns on you? What if he hurts you?"
Peter swallowed hard, the guilt already gnawing at him even before the question. He couldn't tell her the truth—that he was Spider-Man, that he knew this was a frame job. That it wasn't him who did this. He couldn't bring himself to speak it aloud, so he forced a soft smile and reassured her as best he could.
"Believe me, Aunt May," he said gently, "Spider-Man's not like that. Someone's trying to frame him… trying to ruin his reputation. He'd never steal, and he definitely wouldn't hurt innocent people."
Aunt May sighed, clearly unconvinced but unwilling to argue.
At that exact moment, Peter's phone buzzed sharply on the table. He glanced at the screen.
J. Jonah Jameson.
Groaning internally, Peter picked up. "Yes, Mr. Jameson?"
"PARKER! Get down to the Museum of Natural History! Now!"
The voice on the other end was like a bulldozer on caffeine.
"This is front-page material—Spider-Man finally showed his criminal side. I want pictures, Parker! Crystal clear! Full color! Don't miss a single cobweb!"
Click. The call ended.
Peter exhaled deeply, setting the phone down with a thud. His appetite had evaporated. After muttering a quick excuse to Aunt May, he grabbed his bag and coat and rushed out of the house.
By the time he arrived at the museum, the crime scene was already crawling with NYPD officers, reporters, and curious onlookers. The Daily Bugle's media van was parked by the curb. Inside the barricade, Jameson was already preparing for a live segment, flanked by two assistants and a cameraman.
Spotting Peter, Jameson barked, "About time, Parker! Get your camera ready. We've got a criminal infestation to document!"
Peter approached, pulling out his camera as instructed. "Didn't think you'd be doing the report yourself, sir."
Jameson grunted, straightening his tie, "When it comes to that masked menace, I always report personally. The public deserves the truth."
Then he turned to Peter with that signature scowl. "And what happened to the morning shots, huh? Not one picture? You asleep on the job?"
Peter rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "Uh… sorry about that. I was… chasing leads?"
"Sorry?" Jameson scoffed, eyes narrowing. "You think 'sorry' sells papers? You wanna be a photographer or a paperweight?"
Before Peter could respond, the cameraman gave a subtle signal—time to go live. Jameson inhaled deeply and shifted into anchor mode with alarming speed. The scowl vanished, replaced by a grim yet charismatic smile.
"Good evening, viewers," he began solemnly, voice now smooth and theatrical. "Welcome to today's edition of The Horn of Justice. Behind me is the very museum looted last night by none other than Spider-Man himself."
He stepped aside, revealing the shattered glass entrance behind the police tape.
"Last night," Jameson continued, gesturing to the building dramatically, "the so-called 'hero' New York once trusted finally showed his true colors. No more pretending. No more red-and-blue lies. Tonight, we uncover the pestilence beneath the mask."
Peter rolled his eyes behind the lens. Classic Jameson. No matter how many lives Spider-Man saved, the man would always find a way to twist it.
But there was no time to dwell on that. Peter knew he had to investigate.
He discreetly slipped away from the camera crew and ducked under the police cordon using his press pass. Flashing a grin to the nearest officer and muttering, "Official Bugle business," he made his way deeper into the museum.
Eventually, he reached the security wing near the storage warehouse—the site the report said the guards were hung upside down all night. The room was still dim, crime scene markers scattered across the floor.
Peter glanced up at the high beams and dusty rafters. There it was—a single strand of leftover webbing, nearly invisible to the naked eye, dangling from the corner.
White webbing… not mine.
Peter's suit usually generated semi-translucent webbing with a faint bluish hue. This strand was different—cheap, synthetic. A poor imitation.
Making sure he was alone, Peter quietly scaled the wall, plucked the thread, and slipped it into a plastic evidence bag from his backpack. Then he dropped down to the floor, heart racing.
Someone was impersonating him. And now he had the first real clue.
This wasn't just about clearing his name anymore. It was about stopping whoever had the tech—or the ability—to mimic him so precisely.
Whoever it was… they were out there. And they were just getting started.