The Hand's headquarters lay in Japan, a transnational syndicate by every measure.
On the surface, they trafficked drugs and contraband. In the shadows, they experimented on human beings.
Peter tossed the file onto the desk and sank into the manager's chair, lost in thought.
The documents spoke of an ancient demon the Hand worshiped—the Beast. This so-called Beast could raise the dead and wielded unfathomable power.
And so, the Hand sought to summon it.
Through secret methods, they implanted fragments of the Beast into children, turning their bodies into vessels.
Once the "seed" inside sprouted, the child would be harvested—reborn as a warrior.
But it carried staggering risks.
Most never survived. Children perished in endless agony, either dying outright or being torn apart by the Beast's power, losing control until their bodies collapsed.
The "gray wolf boy" lying dead on the floor had been one such vessel.
Unable to endure, he lost his mind, transformed, and rampaged—slaughtering even the Hand members who had created him.
The snake-keepers devoured by their own serpents.
A fitting irony.
Peter bowed his head in brief silence for the boy. Then he rose.
Outside, the wind howled, colder now.
Drawing his gaze back from the window, Peter approached the safe, emptied its cash into a bag, then flicked his lighter and set the file aflame.
He tossed the burning sheaf against the curtains.
The fire spread fast, licking higher as the night wind fanned it, consuming the entire room.
"Call in the fire department, tell them to hurry! And evacuate all nearby residents!"
George Stacy, NYPD's chief, barked orders as he stepped out of his cruiser.
Luckily, the building stood apart from other housing. The blaze would not spread.
George had rushed over the moment the call came in, though clearly, he had arrived a step too late.
Frowning, he retreated from the waves of heat. His temple throbbed.
Only days ago, the department had raided the Hand, arresting several suspected traffickers.
The gang's retaliation had been swift. They had gone after his daughter.
Though Gwen had come away unharmed, the attempt left George shaken—and furious.
But before his wrath could fall, the Hand suffered disasters of its own.
The kidnappers who had targeted Gwen turned up dead in an alley, their throats torn out.
And tonight, an anonymous call reported that the Hand's Hell's Kitchen base was aflame.
The inferno roared too wildly to be controlled any time soon. George exhaled sharply, setting aside thoughts that only deepened his headache.
"Who made the call?"
He glanced at his officers.
"Unclear, sir. It came from a public phone."
George nodded grimly.
The feeling lingered: someone was pulling the strings. Watching, guiding events.
He looked toward the skyline.
And far away, atop a skyscraper rooftop, the caller himself stood in the wind.
Peter.
By now, everything inside had been reduced to ash.
The night breeze tugged at his hair as he raised his hand.
With a thought, black exoskeleton spread across his arm like a living sheath, thrumming with a killing intent not his own. Wrapped in that alien armor, he felt as though nothing could harm him.
The Xenomorph's carapace—copied onto his flesh.
So he was changing. Further and further into something half-human, half-alien.
He lowered his arm at last, drawing out his phone.
The screen reflected his face.
He stared at his own reflection, tangled thoughts pulling him under.
Children with the Beast inside them—seeds that would sprout. Some would endure, becoming warriors. Others would be devoured from within.
And what about him?
Wasn't he, too, a vessel?
Inside him grew something else—an embryo waiting to burst forth. Perhaps it would kill him, tearing free in blood and ruin. Or perhaps he would survive.
But if the thing within him emerged… it would be more lethal than any Beast the Hand could ever summon.
Sliding the phone back into his pocket, Peter silenced his thoughts. He gave one last glance toward the flames devouring the Hand, then turned and left the rooftop.
The Next Morning.
At the Parker home.
Uncle Ben sat on the couch with his newspaper. His brow lifted.
"Hell's Kitchen caught fire last night," he said, startled, looking to Peter and Aunt May.
May, mixing a bowl of fruit salad, frowned. "I hope no one was hurt. I used to volunteer there. The place may be rough, but there are good people, too."
"Was that with the shelter?" Ben set the paper down. "The one helping the homeless?"
"Yes—the FEAST organization. Being able to give them food, warmth, even just dignity… I don't think there's anything more meaningful."
Her voice warmed with quiet pride.
They chatted, unaware that the one who had set the fire sat silently across from them.
"Peter? Want some salad?"
May lifted the bowl toward him, smiling.
"No, thank you, Aunt May."
Peter raised his eyes. "I already ate."
"You only picked at some cheese." May's brows pinched. "You're still growing. You can't be skipping meals."
His appetite had shrunk alarmingly of late. She worried about malnutrition. Or worse—did Peter dislike her cooking?
The thought stung.
"Maybe… I could try some."
After a pause, Peter smiled faintly, walked over, and accepted the bowl. He chewed a piece of endive with studied calm.
But his mind was elsewhere. On the files he had read last night.
New York Presbyterian Hospital.
And one name in particular.
Stephen Strange.
The name rang a bell.