Chapter 183: Saving the Garfield Spider-Man's Future Father-in-Law
Ethan hung in the air above Manhattan and looked down.
The police presence was extensive — cars cordonned off entire blocks, the lights making a grid of red and blue across the streets below. He'd seen this pattern before. Hell's Kitchen had worn this same configuration during the federal operation. In the Marvel universe, this density of emergency response meant something had either just finished or was still going.
He looked toward the tallest building in the area.
Of course. There was always a tower. The final confrontation always happened at altitude. He'd stopped trying to understand the architectural logic of it and had simply accepted it as a rule of the universe: if something important was happening, look up.
He could see a figure moving near the top.
He moved toward it.
On the roof of Oscorp Tower, the sequence had already played out most of the way through.
George Stacy lay on the concrete, the Lizard's claws having found purchase between his ribs at a depth that made everything afterward a matter of time. He was breathing — carefully, each one a deliberate act — and watching Peter Parker climb toward the transmitter with the particular satisfaction of a man who has handed something important to someone he trusts.
Connors, returned to himself, sat against the parapet in the aftermath of the transformation's reversal and understood what had happened to his body and cried about it.
Peter had made it. The antidote was in the air. The crisis was over.
He came back down and found George.
He knelt.
George looked at him and said what he needed to say — the admission that he'd been wrong, the return of the mask, the gratitude, and then the thing he needed most: the promise. Don't bring Gwen into this. She can't be where the cost falls. Promise me.
Peter sat with the question.
He knew what the answer was supposed to be. He knew what George was asking and why. He also knew what it would mean to say yes, and what it would mean to say no, and he was tired and hurt and the man in front of him was dying and none of that made the question easier.
"I'm sorry to interrupt the farewell scene."
The voice came from behind him.
Peter spun.
A man was descending from the air — not with a suit, not with visible equipment, simply descending, as though the air had agreed to hold him. Dark coat, dark hair, the particular quality of presence that bypassed charisma entirely and landed at something closer to gravity.
Peter's spider-sense was not an alarm. It was more like a measurement. And what it was measuring right now, in the portion of its range that assessed threat, was something that made his hands go cold.
Very strong. Very.
He got between the newcomer and George and held position. His body was running on the last of whatever he had, but the math on that didn't change anything. George was behind him. He'd stand until he couldn't.
"Easy," the newcomer said. He wasn't moving toward them. He was just standing in the air a few feet back, watching. "I'm not here to hurt anyone."
Peter didn't relax.
"You've been in a fight," the man said. "You're hurt. The Lizard is neutralized. You've already won." He glanced past Peter at George. "But this doesn't have to end the way it's going to end."
Peter said nothing.
"The person behind you," the man said, "doesn't have to die tonight. I can stop it. But I need you not to punch me in the next thirty seconds, because the window is closing." He looked at Peter directly. "You want to make that promise he's asking for? You don't have to. I can give you a different option."
George, behind him, had heard all of this.
"Who are you?" Peter asked.
"Someone who showed up at the right time. That's sufficient for now." The man moved forward, slowly, telegraphing every motion. "There's exactly one person in this city right now who can help him. I'm looking at you while I say that, and I mean me."
He stopped.
"He's running out of time, Peter Parker. Are we doing this or not?"
Peter looked at him.
His spider-sense was not screaming danger. It was doing something more complicated — registering enormous capability, yes, but not malice. Not threat. Something else.
He stepped aside.
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