"Damn it, is she insane?!"
Del Armi was nearly driven mad with frustration.
He had been just a step away from capturing Gwen Stacy, only for the girl to pull a reckless stunt—leaping straight across to the rooftop next door.
Had that stranger not appeared out of nowhere and grabbed her hand, she would have plummeted to her death right then and there.
"Damn it! That crazy girl is going to fall and kill herself one of these days!"
Sirens wailed faintly in the distance. No matter how unwilling he was to give up, Del could only order his men to retreat.
And the thought that he had failed to complete the mission assigned by his boss only made his mood even fouler.
Thud!
Their boots splashed onto the rain-slick pavement as Del and his men slipped down a narrow side street.
Beneath the flickering glow of old street lamps, the only sounds were their hurried footsteps.
Tap… tap… tap…
Then, from the end of the alley, came a heavier set of footsteps—slow, deliberate, and filled with menace.
A figure dressed in black emerged, step by step, from the shadows.
He was like a predator lurking in the dark, every movement radiating a primal sense of danger.
Peter stopped beneath a broken streetlight that buzzed and flickered, the erratic glow casting sharp contrasts of light and shadow across his face.
Del felt the danger instantly. His eyes narrowed on Peter.
"It's you. You're the one who saved that girl just now!"
He recognized him immediately.
Signaling his men to ready themselves, Del glared at Peter. "You here to avenge her or something?"
"No."
Peter shook his head, expression cold and flat.
He wasn't the kind of man who went out of his way to solve other people's problems.
The only reason he was here tonight… was because he needed an outlet for the violent urge threatening to consume him.
And, while he was at it, he wanted to test just how far the alien gene within him had begun to change his body.
"Who are you people, anyway? Gangsters? Rivals out for blood?"
Peter shook his head again before Del could answer. "Forget it. I don't care."
"F**k you! Who the hell do you think you are, huh?!"
Cursing, Del yanked a knife from his belt, ready to spill this bastard's blood.
Bang!
Before he could even move, the first of his men collapsed with a strangled cry, struck hard in the chest by Peter's blow.
Spinning, Peter twisted at the waist and lashed out with a kick that sent another man crashing to the ground.
His speed was lightning-fast, his strikes ruthless and precise. In an instant, the entire gang was on the defensive.
The alley rang with the dull thuds of flesh being struck and the painful groans of men being broken.
One thug tried to sneak up behind Peter, knife flashing.
But it was as if Peter had eyes in the back of his head. He spun, snatching the blade with his bare hand.
Shhhk!
Blood gushed over the knife, running down the man's arm.
A searing agony shot through him, like his nerves were being set on fire. Screaming, he dropped the weapon and stumbled back.
Staring in horror, he saw his arm where Peter's blood had touched. The flesh was bubbling, smoking, corroded as though by acid. The sight was sickening.
The sudden, grotesque turn of events froze Del and his men in place.
Peter frowned, looking down at the blood dripping from his own palm.
Just as he suspected… his blood now carried the same corrosive traits as a xenomorph's.
"Shhh"
Del sucked in a breath, eyes wide with shock and dread.
What the hell was this guy?
Peter, oblivious to their thoughts, clenched his fist and fixed his cold gaze on the remaining men.
The next instant, he lunged forward like a beast pouncing on prey.
Boom!
The thug whose arm had been burned was slammed hard in the chest, his body flung back like a ragdoll and smashed against the wall. Dust rained down from the impact.
Before the others could react, Peter blurred again, appearing right in front of another man. His leg whipped out like a lash, cracking into bone. The man collapsed, eyes bulging in agony as dust rose around him.
One after another, Peter cut them down with impossible speed and strength, until only Del remained.
Before Del could run, Peter's hand closed around his throat, lifting him off the ground.
Del's legs kicked wildly, his eyes bulging like a cork ready to pop from a champagne bottle.
In Peter's mind, the urge to kill was overwhelming, primal hunger gnawing at his sanity.
The flesh before him looked unbearably delicious. If he just took one bite, he could savor the taste of blood and silence the hunger clawing at his gut.
Del thrashed desperately, pounding at Peter's arm—then froze in horror.
Peter's mouth opened wide, jaw splitting impossibly. A grotesque snarl of teeth—row after row, razor-sharp and dripping with saliva—gleamed in the flickering light.
But in the blink of an eye, the monstrous visage was gone.
Had he imagined it?
"You… you monster…" Del choked out, barely able to form the words.
Crack!
Peter's fingers closed tighter. Del's throat shattered. His lifeless body hit the ground with a dull thud.
Breathing hard, Peter stood amid the corpses, touched his cheek, and frowned.
That… momentary transformation.
Was it really his body changing?
The alien gene was taking root faster than he had imagined.
He recalled Ripley—the cloned "superwoman" from the Alien saga, who also carried alien DNA. She had gained power, yes, but her mind had remained intact.
Peter wasn't so lucky. His thoughts were slipping, devoured by the raw instincts of the xenomorph.
If he didn't remove the embryo inside him soon, would he even remain human? Or would he become nothing more than another perfect killing machine?
A being without conscience, remorse, or morality.
No matter how cold or selfish he had been, deep down Peter had always seen himself as human.
Shaking his head, he looked up at the neon-lit night sky of the city. Then he turned and walked away.
Outside the alley, police cars roared past, red and blue lights slicing through the darkness.
Bzzzt!
His phone vibrated.
Peter pulled it out. A message from Gwen.
"Peter, I made it to the NYPD station. I'm safe! Thank you for swooping in like a godsend tonight—if not for you, I'd probably be spending the night in the hospital with nothing but disinfectant and formalin for company."
"No need to thank me. Who were those people?" Peter texted back.
"Dad says they might be from The Hand."
Snapping the phone shut, Peter frowned, glancing back once more toward the alley.
The Hand.