Dennis Karadin awoke in agony.
His head felt like it had been split open with an axe. His wrists burned where coarse rope dug into his skin. His legs dangled freely in the air, his entire body swaying like a boat tossed in rough waves.
"Where… where am I?"
He tried to open his eyes. A grimy, dim light seeped into his blurred vision. Everything doubled and warped in front of him. It took effort just to breathe, and when he spoke, the sound that came out was nothing but a weak, broken whimper.
He didn't know where he was, but he knew where he wasn't. This was not the harbor. There was no smell of wet salt, no ocean air. Instead the air was stale, thick with dust and rust, and beneath it all a faint sharp scent of gunpowder.
Just like the abandoned factories scattered across Hell's Kitchen.
He had been kidnapped.
The realization crashed over him quickly. In New York, people went missing all the time. Some disappeared because they crossed the wrong gang. Some because they owed money. Some because they were simply in the wrong alley at the wrong time.
But why him? He was nobody. A bottom-tier thug who could barely make enough to eat. Who would waste the time and effort to drag him here?
His vision slowly sharpened. He realized he was suspended from the ceiling by a thick industrial pulley line. Below him, there was nothing but empty air and a concrete floor far, far below. At least fifty feet. If he fell, his skull would shatter.
His heart lurched. His body trembled uncontrollably, which only made the rope sway harder.
A sound rose around him. A voice. But it was wrong.
"Dennis Karadin."
The voice echoed strangely, like it layered over itself. A sharp tone doubled with a metallic undercurrent, as though several speakers repeated the same sentence half a second apart. It filled the air and pressed into Dennis's chest, making it hard to breathe.
Terror seized him.
He tried to speak, but his voice cracked. "Sir…"
"Dennis Karadin. Do you know why I brought you here?"
The voice came again.
His sight finally cleared enough to make out his surroundings. The scaffolding, the rusted beams, the old catwalk platforms. Classic abandoned Manhattan factory. He swung slightly, hanging over hard concrete that waited silently to crush him.
"I… I don't know. I swear I don't know, sir. Whatever you want, I can do it. If you want information, I'll tell you. Just… please…"
There was no pride left in him. People like Dennis didn't have the luxury of dignity. He had spent his life ducking blows, living between gangs, robbing out of fear instead of greed. His only talent was surviving.
If he wasn't dead yet, that meant the person who brought him here wanted something.
If he gave it, maybe maybe he could live.
But the answer that came shattered that hope completely.
"I only want your life."
"No. No, please!" Dennis sobbed, his whole body shaking. He looked down again. The concrete below seemed to stretch deeper and darker the longer he looked. His vision swam. His voice broke apart. "Please, sir, please, I can change, I can "
He stopped speaking.
Because he finally saw the figure in the darkness.
A creature stepped into the dim light.
Tall, thin-limbed, with a long sleek tail. Black armored skin covered most of its body, broken by streaks of glowing blue along its arms and legs. Its feet and hands were clawed, built for speed. Its face angled into a sharp reptilian shape, eyes glowing.
Fasttrack.
Not a man. Not anything human.
The one who kidnapped him was Bant.
Originally, Bant had planned to stay close to Uncle Ben in the coming days, waiting for the night Peter would storm out of the house and destiny would tighten its grip. He knew that moment. Everyone who knew the Spider-Man story knew that moment.
But after transforming into Grey Matter, Bant asked himself a much more important question:
If you know tragedy is coming, why wait for it to happen?
Why mourn after you could have prevented it?
Crime should be cut off before it takes root.
So he found a different path.
He did not know which universe's exact events he had landed in. In one version, Uncle Ben's killer was Flint Marko, later known as Sandman. In another, the killer was a petty thief with a star tattoo on his wrist. The world Bant was in felt like a fusion of those realities.
So he hacked the NYPD database.
Only one criminal in New York with an arrest record had a star tattoo on his wrist.
Dennis Karadin.
Bant's voice was low and sharp. His stance restless. Fasttrack was built for speed, and the form made him impatient, movements twitchy and fluid. The sound of his feet on the metal walkway was rapid, clicking like skates against steel.
"I went through the police records myself, Dennis. Out of everyone documented in this city, you are the only one with that tattoo. The only one who matches."
He had checked Flint Marko too.
No trace of him.
Dennis broke down into sobbing breaths. "If I offended you before, I'll apologize. I swear. I didn't mean anything. I just… I just want to live…"
He didn't understand why Bant had chosen him. He didn't know about fate, or narrative inevitability, or tragedies that already existed in unwritten timelines.
All he knew was that something stronger than any gang monster or criminal had dragged him here, and that his life was slipping away.
Bant reached out his clawed hand toward the rope.
"If I kill you, I will apologize afterward."
He knew this was not righteous.
He knew this act would disqualify him from being a hero in the eyes of many. Heroes save lives. Heroes forgive. Heroes strive to be better.
But Bant did not care.
He wasn't Peter.
He didn't want glory or admiration. He didn't want to swing through the city streets in a bright suit and save the day.
He only wanted one thing:
No one harms Uncle Ben.
Nobody.
Dennis screamed as the rope fibers began to sever under Bant's claws. Fear consumed every breath he could still take.
"I don't know! I swear I don't know! I won't do anything! I'll leave the city! I'll disappear, please, please!"
"You don't now," Bant said. "But you will. And that is enough."
And the rope snapped.
Dennis plummeted.
He didn't even have time to finish a scream.
But before he could hit the ground, something burst through the ceiling.
Heat, light, and roaring flame exploded into the factory. A figure streaked downward like a comet trailing fire. The air pressure slammed against Bant's face. In a single blazing movement, the man caught Dennis mid-fall, slowed, then lowered him to the floor unharmed.
The man rose back into the air, suspended on twin jets of fire streaming from metal gauntlets.
His visor glowed. The red-and-gold armor reflected every flicker of flame.
He hovered eye-to-eye with Bant.
Bant's voice came out like a snarl of pure rage.
"Tony Stark."