Chapter 6: Blood on the Docks
The silence between them stretched, heavy and sharp. Shocker flexed his gauntlets, the air around him humming with unstable power. Spider-Man's fingers twitched against the ground, every muscle coiled. Neither moved—until the ceiling cracked.
A chunk of the roof gave way, crashing down between them. For a sec the rubble blocked their view of each other.
Spider-Man seized the moment.
Thwip! He grabbed two loose chunks of concrete, one in each hand, and hurled them with all his strength toward the falling debris. The three collided midair and shot like cannonballs straight at Shocker.
"Cute trick," Shocker growled. His gauntlets flared A blast of compressed force shredded the projectiles into powder.
But Peter was already moving.
Thwip! A webline snagged Shocker's right arm. Peter yanked hard, twisting the villain off-balance.
Thwip! Another line shot out, latching onto the other gauntlet. Peter pulled with both hands, dragging Shocker stumbling forward.
"Ever heard of ring-out rules?" Spider-Man quipped, launching himself off the floor.
He flipped over Shocker's head, twisting midair, then wrapped both arms around the villain's torso from behind. With one clean motion, he drove them both down—WHAM!—slamming Shocker into the concrete hard enough to rattle the floor.
Before Shocker could recover, Peter unloaded a storm of webs, pinning him flat against the ground, arms stuck wide like an insect under glass.
"Now then let's burn all the goodies here and prepare for the shipment."
With all drug burning all the criminals webbed upped now it just a waiting time
The fire spread fast. Flames licked at the wooden pallets, curling black smoke toward the rafters. The drugs were nothing but ash now, scattered across the scorched concrete floor.
But the sound of tires screeching against asphalt pulled Peter's attention back to the docks.
Headlights cut through the fog. A convoy of black SUVs rolled to a stop by the water's edge. Doors slammed, and a dozen men in suits spilled out, weapons gleaming under the moonlight. Their armbands bore the unmistakable symbol of Fisk Enterprises.
A small army pulled up on the harbor spiderman getting ready for a fight wondering how he was how they new he has taken the harbor.
But before he could make a move, another wave of engines roared in from the opposite side. Black Cadillacs pulled up, and another rival gang piled out—slicked-back hair, fedoras, trench coats, tommy guns that looked like they belonged to another century. At the front, the man himself stepped into the floodlights.
Hammerhead. His scarred face was lit like a demon's mask, his steel-plated skull glinting under the lamps.
"Alright, boys," he growled, pointing at the crates. "Nobody touches my shipment."
The two gangs faced each other across the burning docks, smoke rising between them. Then—
The silence broke.
Gunfire erupted.
The harbor exploded into chaos. Bullets ricocheted off steel containers. Sparks lit up the night. Men screamed as they ducked behind forklifts and crates, returning fire.
And caught between it all was Spider-Man.
He swung low, kicking a rifle out of one thug's hands, then vaulted off a crane to web three others to the ground. A bullet grazed his shoulder; another nicked his thigh. He barley notice the cuts
Everywhere he turned, another gun muzzle flashed.
Spider-Man dove sideways, the bullet hissing past his mask as he hit the ground in a roll. He fired a quick thwip! mid-roll, yanking the rifle as well as the goons head slamming him down.
A shotgun blast thundered from the left. He vaulted high, shotgun pellets grazing his leg, before crashing down feet-first on the shooter's chest. The man collapsed with a groan, the weapon skittering across the pavement.
Another thug popped up from behind a crate, pistol raised.
Thwip! Thwip! Spider-Man's webs shot out, wrapping tight around the man's arms. With a sharp pull, he yanked the thug stumbling forward—straight into his path.
Behind him, another man leapt out from the shadows, gun already aimed. Spider-Man's lenses flicked back just in time.
He twisted his body, springing sideways at the last second.
The two thugs collided hard—the one yanked forward crashing chest-first into the one with the gun. The weapon clattered uselessly to the ground as both men toppled in a heap.
Two more rushed him at once. Peter planted a hand on the ground, swung himself in a sweeping kick, and took both off their feet. As they hit the floor, he spun, snagged a forklift with a webline, and yanked—sending the heavy machine rolling forward just enough to pin them underneath its weight.
The air reeked of gunpowder and burning wood. Bullets sparked against steel around him, but Peter never stopped moving—dodging, weaving, his webs firing so fast the sound of thwip-thwip-thwip became its own rhythm against the chaos.
By the time the smoke cleared, the docks were littered with unconscious bodies and shattered weapons. Both sides had pulled back, forming a shaky standstill, wary of pushing forward.
And at the center of it all, Spider-Man stood.
His suit was torn in places, blood seeping through shallow cuts. He held one thug by the collar, lifting him off the ground with one trembling hand. The thug whimpered, legs kicking in the air.
Peter's lenses narrowed into razor slits. His voice was low, colder than the night.
"There will be no more drugs in my city. No more large-scale gunfights. No more of this…" His grip tightened. "…ever again."
Then—THUNK! He hurled the man against a car. The thug hit with a sickening crack before slumping unconscious, webbing sealing him in place.
For a moment, silence.
Both gangs stared at the masked figure, the boy who looked less like a hero and more like a ghost crawling out of a nightmare.
And then—
Laughter.
Slow, rumbling, cruel laughter.
From the Kingpin's SUV, a massive silhouette stepped out. His tailored white suit gleamed even through the haze of smoke, and his diamond-tipped cane tapped once against the concrete.
Wilson Fisk—The Kingpin—smiled as he looked at Spider-Man.
"Well said, boy," he rumbled, his deep voice carrying over the docks. "But tell me—" he spread his arms wide to the chaos around them—"what makes you think you have any say in how this city runs?"