Chapter 23: Gloves Off, Webs Out
In which fists fly, tempers flare, and Spider-Man learns the hard way that lava fists are not covered by your average health insurance.
The night was still thick with smoke and tension, like a pot left on the stove a little too long—simmering, heavy, and one misplaced spark away from boiling over. Somewhere above it all, the moon blinked through the haze like a worried relative watching a family argument from across the room.
Peter Parker didn't have time to admire the atmosphere.
He crouched low on the ruined rooftop, a silhouette barely darker than the shadows around him. His body was perfectly still, save for the twitch of his fingers.
Flick.
Chakra-infused needles shot from between his knuckles, slicing through the air so quietly they might have been ghosts.
Thwip!
The first one struck a man square in the thigh. The poor bloke let out a yelp that sounded somewhere between a scream and an unfiltered curse, dropping like a sack of disgruntled potatoes. Another needle hit a second man in the shoulder, sending his gun skittering out of his hands like it, too, had decided this gig wasn't worth the risk.
One by one, Tombstone's men fell—arms twitching, legs buckling, eyes wide with sudden, unearned clarity about their career choices.
Panic spread like fire on dry paper.
But Tombstone?
He wasn't just another bruiser with delusions of grandeur. No, he was practically a walking tank in Armani—pale as marble, broad as a bus, and twice as hard to stop. The first needle barely nicked his arm before he dropped to the ground, dragging one of his injured goons into the line of fire as a human shield.
"Of course he'd do that," Peter muttered from the shadows, invisible and unimpressed.
Tombstone's narrowed eyes swept the darkness, every muscle tense, his instincts honed by a life that rewarded paranoia and punished hesitation. Around him, the remains of his men clutched wounds and fired blindly into the night like overcaffeinated stormtroopers.
"He's here!" one of them shouted, spinning in circles and nearly shooting his own foot off.
"No kidding," Tombstone growled, jaw tightening. He had fought mutants, mercenaries, and monsters—but this? This was a magician. A ghost. A very annoying ghost with an invisibility trick and a flair for dramatic entrances.
Somewhere above, the shadows shifted.
Thwip!
Before Tombstone could even grunt, a web shot out and yanked the oversized rail gun clean out of his grip. The thing whizzed through the air like a disgruntled hammerhead shark and landed with a clunk in Spider-Man's waiting hands.
"Well, this looks expensive," Peter quipped, testing the weight of the weapon with a casual one-handed spin. "Mind if I borrow it for a science fair?"
Tombstone's only answer was a roar of fury.
It was the kind of noise that usually preceded a building collapsing or a supervillain charging headfirst into disaster.
In this case: the latter.
Tombstone lunged forward, only to find—surprise!—another web had already attached itself to his ankle.
Peter gave a little salute.
Then pulled.
What happened next could best be described as physics with an attitude. Tombstone's enormous form flew through the air, arms flailing, a brief expression of betrayal flashing across his chalk-white face before—
CRASH!
He collided with a lamp post so hard it bent at a ninety-degree angle, sparks bursting like New Year's confetti. The streetlights flickered, momentarily plunging the street into a strobe-lit nightmare of shadows and shattered glass.
From his hiding spot, one of the surviving goons whimpered. "Oh, we are so fired."
Peter landed with a soft thump, dropping the rail gun beside a twitching SUV.
"Alright, fellas," he said, voice amplified just enough to echo over the rubble, "who's next? Anyone else feel like throwing hands? Or… limbs, perhaps?"
No one answered.
The air was suddenly full of groans, broken weapons, and the eerie silence of people re-evaluating their life choices.
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Tombstone rolled his massive shoulders like a professional bouncer who'd just finished a protein shake made of asphalt and raw vengeance. He stood tall—towering, really—his dark suit shredded and fraying at the edges, the sleeves torn to expose that impossible skin: gray, cracked like volcanic stone, beaded with blood and still somehow glistening like polished obsidian.
And yet, there he was—grinning like a school bully who'd just spotted his favorite punching bag.
Peter, for his part, was already shifting into a defensive stance, his legs loose, arms raised, spider-sense buzzing in his skull like an angry beehive. He could still smell the molten slag behind him, where concrete had once dared to exist.
"I gotta say, Spider," Tombstone growled, his voice rolling like thunder through a gravel pit, "I didn't expect you to fight so dirty."
Peter tilted his head, cracking his neck like he was warming up for a charity boxing match instead of mortal combat.
"Yeah?" he shot back. "I didn't expect you to be such a weakling."
Tombstone's grin vanished faster than a donut in a police precinct.
The air around his gloves warped as they roared to life, glowing a brilliant, dangerous red. The metal rippled with heat, crackling with violent energy like they'd just been pulled from the heart of a volcano.
And then he moved.
BOOM.
He lunged—not ran, not charged—lunged. A creature his size shouldn't have moved like that. Peter's spider-sense screamed in his brain, the kind of alarm that usually preceded a hospital visit.
He dodged by a thread, flipping backward just in time to watch a white-hot fist miss his head by mere inches. The resulting WHOOSH of air blistered his cheek, and the nearby pavement hissed like bacon in a skillet.
"Yikes!" Peter yelped, mid-flip. "That could've been my face, you know!"
He landed nimbly, already thwipping a web at Tombstone's face.
But—
FZZT!
The web evaporated mid-air the second it touched the glove, like someone had hit it with a blowtorch.
Peter blinked.
"Oh, you've gotta be kidding me—"
He barely saw the foot coming.
TWHAM!
Tombstone's booted leg caught him mid-air like a home-run swing. Peter flew backward with all the grace of a launched missile—and the landing of one.
CRUNCH!
He smashed through the roof of a cop car, crumpling the metal like an aluminum can before rolling onto the cracked pavement with a groan.
He'd barely had time to process the pain when a glowing fist came down like the hammer of judgment.
BOOOOM!
Peter crossed his arms over his chest just in time. Even through the reinforced fabric of his suit, the heat scorched him. His bones rattled, his skin screamed, and the pressure pressed down like the weight of a collapsing building.
Tombstone leaned in, the red haze casting his face in devilish hues.
"You're strong, Spider," he rasped. "But I can break you."
Peter's teeth clenched.
"Yeah? Get in line," he grunted—and kicked.
His foot drove into Tombstone's gut, forcing the brute to stumble back with a loud OOF, his feet dragging trenches in the concrete.
Peter scrambled to his feet, his arms trembling. His gloves were singed, and he could feel burns rising underneath, but there was no time. The fight had flipped from bad to worse, and he had exactly zero interest in becoming Tombstone's next pancake.
He surged forward.
Webs shot out behind him, anchoring to broken light poles. With a twist, he yanked himself forward, turning himself into a human bullet.
BAM!
His fist connected with Tombstone's jaw like a sledgehammer, a shockwave rippling outward. The albino crime lord staggered—stunned, but still upright.
Peter wasn't done.
He followed up, fast and brutal—his fists a blur, striking every bruised spot he could find.
WHAM! Left hook to the ribs.
WHAM! Right cross to the shoulder.
THUD! Knee to the gut.
CRACK! Elbow straight to the temple.
Each hit echoed through the empty street, sharp and satisfying. Peter's heart was pounding. He could do this. He could win.
Except… Tombstone wasn't slowing down.
In fact, he was smiling again.
Worse—he was laughing.
Peter skidded back, panting. "Okay. Rude. That was supposed to knock you out."
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Peter's spinning kick should have landed.
It was textbook, really—perfect form, excellent velocity, the kind of move Sensei Naruto would have approved of with a slow, solemn nod (and maybe a confusing ramen metaphor). But alas, Tombstone had the gall—the audacity—to catch his leg in mid-air like he was plucking a dandelion from a meadow.
And before Peter could say "Uh-oh"—
BOOM!
He was yanked downward and slammed into the pavement with such force that the ground practically gave up. Asphalt cracked like brittle ice, spiderweb fractures spreading outward in a glorious display of irony.
Peter's head rang like someone had drop-kicked a church bell. He might've been seeing stars. Or cartoon birds. Hard to tell.
Tombstone didn't give him time to pick which.
A massive, rock-hard hand wrapped around Peter's throat, lifting him like a prize at a carnival. The crime lord's glowing heat gloves pulsed ominously, casting his stone-gray skin in a molten-red glow.
"You think you're a monster, kid?" he growled, his voice heavy with gravel and cruelty. "Let me show you a real one."
The glove flared to life, and Peter could feel the heat even through his mask. His lungs burned, his brain screamed, and he did what any sensible person would do.
He panicked creatively.
Twisting mid-air with spider-enhanced agility, he swung both legs forward—BAM!—kicking Tombstone square in the chest and forcing him to release his grip.
Peter landed hard, rolled, then popped to his feet like a toast slice from hell. He shook his stinging hands and coughed.
"Okay," he rasped. "Those things need to go."
Tombstone roared and charged like an angry rhino dipped in lava, fists ready to tenderize.
Peter sidestepped at the last second—classic feint—and lobbed two web pellets.
POP!
The tiny orbs detonated in a puff of dense, sticky webbing, blanketing Tombstone's arms and heat gloves in insulated gunk. Sparks erupted. The gloves flickered. Then—
FZZZT.
They died with a very satisfying whine.
Tombstone howled, trying to shake the webs off, but Peter was already in motion.
One hand on the ground, he launched into a wild arc, all momentum and fury.
CRACK!
A vicious kick slammed into Tombstone's ribs, sending the behemoth sliding backward, carving trenches into the asphalt with his heels.
Peter didn't stop.
He webbed both legs, then yanked.
Tombstone flew forward like a sack of rage and regrets—right into a brutal rising knee to the jaw.
BAM!
Tombstone's head snapped back. He reeled, dazed. For the first time, Peter saw him stumble.
And that was all the invitation he needed.
He became a blur of motion—a flurry of shadow and fury and tightly packed sarcasm.
WHACK! Spinning kick to the ribs.
THWAM! Flip into a downward axe-kick that cracked the sidewalk.
FWAP! A second volley of webs, pinning Tombstone's feet to the street like cement shoes in a mobster opera.
The crime lord jerked, snarling, trying to rip himself free.
But he was stuck.
Peter stood over him, panting, suit torn, arms singed, adrenaline humming like a chorus of caffeine-fueled squirrels.
"You know what your problem is?" he muttered, voice steady now. "You underestimate people like me."
Tombstone glared up, teeth bared.
Peter's eyes narrowed behind the mask.
"And that's why you lose."
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The night air was thick with smoke and silence, a stillness that seemed to hang heavy over the ruins of the Harlem precinct. Streetlights flickered weakly, casting long shadows over rubble-strewn streets and crumpled squad cars. Somewhere far off, a siren wailed—a distant sound, almost ghostly.
And in the centre of it all, two figures remained.
One stood tall, his dark suit swallowing what little light remained.
The other lay broken at his feet.
Peter Parker's breath came in slow, steady pulls as he loomed over Tombstone's twisted body. The crime lord was no longer the unstoppable tank that had stormed the station. He was wounded, beaten, and—if Peter had done this right—about to spend the next year drooling into a hospital pillow.
"Give up," Peter growled, his voice low, dark, and—if one were to be honest—just a tad too dramatic, like he'd been rehearsing it in his head all night.
Tombstone, bless his cracked ribs, managed a wet, gurgled chuckle. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth like cheap stage makeup. But that grin—crooked, pained, and full of venom—didn't fade.
"Next time, Spider," he rasped. "You won't be so lucky."
It was the sort of thing villains always said. Right before they got their faces stomped in.
Peter, obligingly, didn't hesitate.
He sprang forward—silent, deadly, shadow-wrapped.
CRACK!
A stomp, precise and brutal, connected with Tombstone's legs. Something gave, and not in a metaphorical way. The sound echoed across the street like a tree snapping in a storm.
Tombstone screamed—a sound so guttural and monstrous it made the nearby pigeons take off in a flurry of feathers and indignation.
And still—Peter wasn't done.
CRACK!
He grabbed Tombstone's arm—an arm the size of a small tree trunk—and snapped it backwards at the elbow. The joint crumpled like wet cardboard, and another howl tore from the crime lord's throat.
"You're different," Tombstone grunted through the agony, his tone almost… admiring. "Not what I expected... from Spider-Man."
Peter didn't answer.
He crouched low, dark eyes staring from behind his cracked lenses.
His voice was a whisper, silk-wrapped steel.
"Stings, doesn't it?"
For a moment—just one—Tombstone's bravado wavered.
Peter leaned in slightly, the words falling like ice.
"Remember—they felt worse."
A flicker passed through the crime lord's eyes. Guilt? Doubt? Maybe just the realization that he wasn't the only monster in the dark tonight.
Peter straightened slowly, his shoulders rising with a quiet, deliberate breath. His fists trembled—not from fear, but from something deeper. A rage that burned cold and silent.
Around them, the battlefield exhaled. Sirens grew louder. The crackle of distant flames danced with the hush of ash settling. It should have felt like the end of a war.
But Peter knew better.
He flexed his palm, the skin parting like a curtain as a gleaming, purple-tipped stinger slid from beneath.
Sleek.
Sharp.
Final.
Without hesitation, he drove it into Tombstone's chest.
The man spasmed—his body convulsing once, twice—then stilled. His pale skin took on a ghastly shade, like old bone. His breathing slowed, dragged down by the venom now coursing through his veins.
It wasn't lethal.
Peter made sure of that.
It was poetic.
A year of stillness. A year of silence. A year where the monster who had roared through Harlem with a railgun would lie helpless, unable to lift a finger.
Peter pulled the stinger free, letting it retract with a soft hiss.
He looked down at the defeated crime lord, his voice calm, almost gentle.
"Sweet dreams," he said.
And with that, he turned away—just as the first responders finally arrived, red and blue lights washing over him like applause after a final curtain.
Peter didn't wave.
He just walked into the night.