Marvel's Strongest Mage

If Daniel hadn't seen Peter Parker fighting those drones with his own eyes… if he hadn't been a magician trained to sense the flow of energy, to feel when someone was real or an illusion… he might've been fooled.

The Spider-Man who dropped into the charity gala? He was a fake.

His suit was convincing—almost perfect. His movements, rehearsed. But there was no weight behind them. No kinetic pressure. No supernatural tingle crawling along Daniel's senses.

Impostor.

He could sense the hollowness behind the bravado.

But the others in the room? They didn't have Daniel's insight. To them, Spider-Man had just made a dramatic entrance into J. Jonah Jameson's penthouse. And for a moment, the breath caught in everyone's chest.

Even Jameson—who had made a career out of demonizing Spider-Man—was too stunned to react.

The fake Spider-Man sauntered across the marble floor and stopped right in front of Peter Parker.

Then he grabbed Peter by the collar.

"Hey, Parker," he growled loud enough for half the room to hear. "We need to talk. I've got a lot of issues with the photos you took last time."

A few gasps went up around the room. The guests stared. Murmurs spread like wildfire.

Peter—caught off guard but quick to play along—just blinked.

And then it clicked: the fake Spider-Man was setting up a show. A fake conflict. One Peter was supposed to play into.

For Peter, this wasn't new.

He'd been surviving college on photo commissions—shots of Spider-Man for The Daily Bugle. The irony, of course, was that the best shots came from first-person angles.

Because he was Spider-Man.

So to the public, Peter Parker was Spider-Man's unofficial photographer. And now Spider-Man was in his face, making a scene.

Perfect bait for a public feud.

Peter raised both hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. I apologize."

"Apology accepted," said the fake Spider-Man. "But it's not enough. I still—whoa, what the hell is that?!"

His eyes widened.

Everyone instinctively turned—some looking to the windows, others at the door.

That's when it hit.

A thunderous crack erupted overhead.

The ceiling split open, raining rubble and dust down onto the guests below. Screams pierced the air.

Then it descended.

A monstrous mechanical spider.

Black and crimson. Its limbs were sharp and angular, like industrial scythes. Its carapace shimmered with metal plating, its eyes gleamed like lenses, and its jaws clicked with eerie precision.

Gasps turned to chaos. Someone shoved a waiter. Glass shattered.

Daniel didn't hesitate. He grabbed Gwen Stacy and pulled her to cover, his body shielded hers as fragments rained around them. He looked up just in time to see Captain George Stacy scanning the room for his daughter.

The moment their eyes met, George nodded. Relief flickered in his expression.

Daniel gestured toward the service stairwell.

He didn't care about the fake Spider-Man, or the machine's rampage. Not yet. Not unless civilians were at risk. This wasn't his fight.

And Peter was still here.

There was no need for Daniel to expose himself. Not in front of Captain Stacy. Not tonight.

But when he turned his head again—Peter was gone.

Vanished into the chaos.

A moment later, Daniel spotted him through the blur—helping his aunt into a side room, then darting toward the stairwell. Seconds passed. And then… the real Spider-Man appeared on the rooftop above.

Suited. Ready. Unmistakable.

Now there were two Spider-Men in the room.

But only one of them mattered.

Daniel reached the exit just as George Stacy regrouped with his family. "Take care of them," George said, placing a hand on Gwen's shoulder. "Get them to safety."

Then he loosened his tie and looked toward the growing pandemonium inside the living room.

But Daniel stopped him. "Not yet," he said, voice low, urgent. "Evacuate the civilians first. We don't know what this thing's going to do."

A scream tore through the room as another limb of the mechanical spider tore through the floorboards.

George hesitated. His instincts were to protect and engage, but Daniel was right.

"Alright!" George shouted. "Everyone! Down the stairs! Don't use the elevator!"

The guests surged toward the emergency exit.

Gwen kicked off her heels. Mrs. Stacy clutched Daniel's arm as he guided them through the stairwell, leading them down twelve flights and into a waiting taxi. He shut the door, pounded the roof, and watched it drive off into the night.

Then he looked up.

Far above, the mechanical spider was flying away—its jagged limbs coiled around a flailing Spider-Man.

Daniel's eyes narrowed.

It was too fast to track. Too high to reach.

But something told him… it wasn't the real one they'd captured.

Back upstairs, order had been replaced by wreckage. Jameson stood in the middle of the ruined living room, arms flailing.

"A million dollars!" he shouted. "I just lost a million dollars!"

Daniel spotted Felicia Hardy and her mother speaking with Captain Stacy. He approached, brushing debris off his coat.

"You alright?" he asked Felicia quietly.

"We're fine." Her voice was tight. Her hands trembled. "Why didn't you leave? And Parker… where the hell did he go?"

Daniel kept his expression neutral. "I think he went to check on his aunt."

Felicia sneered. "Figures. Coward."

She hadn't seen the real Spider-Man swing through the wreckage and save her before disappearing again.

Peter had.

But she didn't know that.

Then a voice crackled from the guest room. "—Spider-Man appears unconscious. This may be our only chance—"

Jameson sprinted toward the sound. Daniel followed.

Inside, a flat-screen flickered. The Daily Bugle's own TV station was airing a breaking news report.

Onscreen: a motionless Spider-Man, slumped in a pool of rubble.

Beside him stood a smug, clean-cut reporter with dark eyes and a gleaming smile.

Eddie Brock.

Daniel's jaw tightened.

He hadn't expected Brock to be working with the Bugle already, much less landing televised exclusives.

"This is it!" Eddie announced into the camera. "The moment America's been waiting for. The mask comes off. I'm Eddie Brock, and this is your first look…"

He reached down.

Gripped the cowl.

Pulled.

The hood came off.

Gasps filled the room.

Even Jameson's jaw dropped. "What the hell…?"

Because the face beneath the mask wasn't Peter Parker.

It was Flash Thompson.

Still unconscious. But unmistakable.

"Flash?" Felicia Hardy whispered, stunned. "But he was my…"

"He was your dance partner," Daniel finished for her.

Jameson's confusion turned to outrage, then to amusement. "Unbelievable. Spider-Man is this brat? A kid? A dumb jock?!"

Murmurs spread among the few remaining staff.

Daniel said nothing.

Because the real Spider-Man had already vanished.

Flash Thompson was just the decoy. A patsy. Someone who had agreed—or been manipulated—into donning the suit.

And that meant…

Daniel turned.

Slipped away from the others.

Out of sight.

He moved through the shadows, crossed the service stairwell, and reached the rooftop once more.

The city stretched out before him. Neon and steel. Sirens echoed in the distance. Wind tugged at his coat.

And ahead, far across the skyline, he saw movement.

A blur of red and blue, swinging between buildings, fast and furious.

Peter.

He was chasing the mechanical spider.

Alone.

Daniel narrowed his eyes.

He didn't know where the machine had taken Flash. Didn't know who was pulling the strings. But whoever it was, they had the audacity to hijack Spider-Man's identity—on Jameson's home turf—and manipulate the media narrative.

That made them dangerous.

Daniel stepped onto the edge of the building.

And leapt.

The wind howled around him as he disappeared into the night, chasing shadows, chasing answers, and truth.