The Amazing Spider-Man
Livin' in the Edge 1/???
Mini-Arc: The Faces of the Chameleon 1/4
Chapter Seven: Mirrored webs.
A cold wind swept through the alleyways of Hell's Kitchen, the late-night silence broken only by the echo of a woman's heels on cracked pavement. Her coat flared behind her like a cape, arms clutched tight across her chest.
That's when she felt it — the presence behind her.
"I wouldn't scream if I were you," came a voice. Low. Calm. Threatening.
A figure emerged from the shadows, tall and still, his face lost in darkness.
"Kingpin doesn't like waiting. Where's his money?"
The woman turned, shaking but defiant. "Tell your boss he'll get it next week. I just need time. After the gala's over, he'll have it."
The figure tilted his head. Even without seeing his face, the weight of the silence made her breath catch.
"Kingpin's patience is measured in seconds," the voice said. "You've already used most of them."
He stepped closer, still cloaked in shadow. "Perhaps I should give that gala a visit."
The implication hit her like ice. The gala wasn't just any event — it was the city's crown jewel fundraiser, drawing its most powerful names: Norman Osborn, Wilson Fisk, Justin Hammer, Ezekiel Sims. A single attack there could cripple the city.
"Anything but that," she pleaded. "I'll have the money, I swear."
Her trembling fingers fumbled for her phone. She switched on the flashlight — and the beam caught something. Red and blue. A faint glint under the darkness.
"Perhaps," the figure said, his voice turning sharp. Then, with a snap:
"But be sure of this — if Kingpin doesn't get his money… Spider-Man will take you out."
Before she could react, he leapt — impossibly high — and vanished over the rooftops.
She gasped and lifted her phone, snapping a photo. The image came out blurry, a mess of shadow and motion.
But one thing was clear.
Spider-Man — or something wearing his skin — had just delivered the message.
---
Two weeks had passed since the funeral. It had been small, quiet, and kind. Midtown High students, neighbors, even some teachers had shown up to pay their respects to Ben Parker.
The insurance payout helped — not much, but enough to repair the house, replace the broken furniture, and keep groceries in the fridge for a few weeks. But now… reality was setting in.
Peter Parker needed a job. A real one. Amateur wrestling was behind him. The guilt of what he could've stopped still haunted him, a constant shadow he knew he'd never fully escape. Whatever came next, it had to matter.
Lunchtime at Midtown High was unusually calm. Peter sat with his usual circle — Liz, Harry, and even Flash, who had been surprisingly decent since Uncle Ben's death. The bullying had stopped. For now.
"So," Liz said, nibbling at her sandwich, "did you guys finish the physics homework?" She sighed and slumped over the table in defeat. "I swear I'm gonna fail. I still don't understand Newton's laws. Couldn't the guy have made them a little easier to get?"
Peter blinked out of his daze. "If you want, I can try to help you… but I kinda lost track of time last night, so I didn't finish it either."
He left out the part about crashing down a break-in near Queens as Spider-Man. That had taken far longer than expected.
Flash leaned in. "You okay, Parker? You've been zoning out a lot lately." He gave Peter a playful punch on the shoulder.
Before Peter could answer, MJ appeared, clutching a folded newspaper like it was a weapon. She slapped it down on the table, eyes blazing.
The Daily Bugle. Peter frowned. "What's going on?"
"Remember Spider-Man?" MJ asked, voice sharp.
"Of course!" Flash grinned. "Fan club's up to twelve members! Even made stickers! …Still kinda bummed he ditched wrestling, though. Guy had potential."
MJ narrowed her eyes at Peter, almost like she was mad at him.
"Well, it looks like your idol's not wrestling or fighting crime anymore. Apparently, he's committing it."
Peter's eyebrows shot up. "Wait—what?"
MJ lifted the paper and slapped it down on the table. The front page showed a blurry but unmistakable figure — red and blue, Spider-Man's colors — leaping away from an alley into the night. The headline screamed.
"Spider-Menace Attacks Woman in Alley – Linked to Kingpin of Crime?"
"What?" Peter repeated, his voice shifting from confusion to pure shock.
MJ's glare softened, just slightly. "So… you didn't know?"
"No! I mean—come on! That's obviously fake. Look—he's jumping away. And the suit? It's wrong. Raised webbing instead of black lines… It's not the same outfit."
Flash slumped back, disappointed. "So he's not a good guy anymore? Aw, man. I was gonna order T-shirts."
Liz tapped the table thoughtfully. "Or… maybe it's not him. Could be a copycat. That would explain why he's acting different."
Harry flipped the paper over, scanning. "There's more," he said, frowning. "'Local residents near Midtown High have reported web nests in alleys and dumpsters. Experts fear the Spider-Menace is reproducing and preparing to unleash an army of offspring.'"
Peter stared at him. "That's… absurd." He tried to hide the disgust curling in his stomach.
But something in that line stuck with him. Web nests?
His webs didn't last anywhere near that long. By design, they dissolved within an hour or two — it was part of their chemical makeup. If something was leaving webs that lingered for days… then it wasn't him.
He made a mental note to check those sites after school.
Then his eyes drifted to a small box buried on the lower half of the page.
The Daily Bugle is now accepting reader-submitted photos of Spider-Man. Top pay for verified sightings — no photography experience required.
Peter stared at it for a moment.
And then MJ's voice echoed in his head, Jackpot.
---
A skyscraper clad in glass and marble loomed over the city like a judgmental god.
In the penthouse office, Wilson Fisk—known to only a select few as the Kingpin of Crime—stood before a panoramic window, massive hands clasped behind his back. The city sprawled beneath him, unaware of the invisible strings he pulled.
From the shadows, a figure stepped forward. At first glance, it was Spider-Man — red mask, white lenses, the familiar web pattern.
Then the figure pressed a small button on the mask's side.
The image shimmered, then dissolved.
Gone was Spider-Man. In his place stood a pale-faced man with eyes like polished glass, his expression carved from porcelain, his movements sharp and deliberate.
The Chameleon.
"You did well, Dmitri," Fisk said, his voice as calm and heavy as granite. "The paper ran the story. The public's starting to question their little hero."
Chameleon's voice was flat, almost mechanical. "It won't be long before he tries to clear his name. That's when we spring the trap."
Fisk's lips curved in a slow, knowing smile. "Let the spider come. We'll tangle him in a web he'll never escape."