Peter Parker

Brooklyn Industrial Zone, Lot 47C

A dull fog settled over the empty street, clinging to the rusted fence lines and cracked pavement like a dirty blanket. The old warehouse loomed just ahead—silent, lightless, hulking.

Parked two blocks down, half-hidden beside a row of delivery trucks, sat a black utility van with dust on the wheels, fake inspection stickers, and plates traced back to a dead corporate shell. Inside it: reinforced bags, fuel canisters, thermal cutters, and a system-locked tablet flickering with an active hack thread.

Leaning against the passenger side door, arms folded across his chest, was Peter Parker in his black suit—hood up, eyes hidden behind red-tinted lenses. His breathing was slow, calm. His thoughts were clear.

"No backup. No witnesses."

He closed the van door with a soft click and walked into the night, merging with the shadows like he'd been born in them.

Peter moved across rooftops, avoiding the field of motion sensors he'd already mapped two nights prior. The building's internal systems were patched into a third-party security firm—cheap, but reliable. He'd cracked their backdoor an hour ago.

He crouched behind a vent unit, tablet in hand.

"Disable internal cameras: check.""Loop external feed: check.""Kill silent alarm relay: check."

Peter set the tablet to a passive listening mode—if someone tried to restore the system, he'd get a ping.

Then he descended.

The grappling line hummed faintly as he lowered himself beside a second-story side window. He popped the old industrial lock and slipped inside like a breeze.

The warehouse interior was dimly lit. Stacks of wooden crates and metal shelving formed uneven aisles. A half-dozen men stood in the front office, playing cards. Three more patrolled—one near the back loading dock, two at the north side overseeing what looked like a fresh shipment.

At the far end, a large metal shipping container sat open—stacked with bricks of packaged narcotics, ready for distribution.

Peter noted another detail: a thick safe bolted to the floor, flanked by two chairs, both empty.

"Fifteen confirmed. All armed," he whispered into his recorder. "No masks. No names. No chance."

Peter's first move was from above.

He dropped silently onto the man patrolling near the back, arm wrapping around his throat, the other jamming a pressure point behind the ear. The man collapsed in silence. Peter dragged him behind the crates and zip-tied his wrists.

One down.

He stalked toward the loading dock. The two men there were chatting—careless. Peter waited until one turned to light a cigarette.

Snap.

Peter grabbed the first by the collar, yanked him down, and drove a knee into his face. He turned instantly, webbing the second man's mouth shut before he could shout, then jabbed him in the gut and dropped him with a hook to the jaw.

Three down.

Inside the front office, the card game continued. Laughter echoed.

Peter climbed to the steel rafters above and moved silently. When he was directly above them, he dropped a single smoke pellet into the room.

Panic.

"What the hell—?"

Coughing. Cursing.

He crashed down through the ceiling tiles, landing between them like a vengeful shadow. A chair was swung at his head—he ducked, grabbed the attacker's arm, and twisted hard. The man dropped, screaming. Peter spun low, sweeping another's legs out before launching a hard backhand into a third.

Within twenty seconds, five men were down—dazed, unconscious, or choking in the corner.

Two more came running from the hallway, alerted by the crash.

Peter met them head-on.

The first raised a gun. Peter deflected the arm with a sharp slap, spun under it, and delivered a punch to the ribs that crumpled him instantly. The second fired.

Bang—

Peter sidestepped, caught the barrel, and snapped it upward.

Bang—! The bullet buried itself into the ceiling.

Peter wrenched the weapon free, disassembled it in three motions, and slammed the handle across the man's temple.

Down.

With the gang neutralized, Peter moved toward the back room, where the safe waited like a steel tomb.

He knelt beside it, examining the locking mechanism. Old-school combination dial, reinforced hinges.

He didn't need tools.

With a grunt, Peter dug his fingers into the frame and ripped it open—steel groaning as it bent like foil under his enhanced strength.

Inside: bundles of cash, neat stacks wrapped in rubber bands. Hundred-dollar bills.

Peter packed the cash into a reinforced duffel and made his way outside to his van, opening the back hatch and stashing the bag deep in the hidden compartment. The van's interior was lined with insulation and signal dampeners. Even a scanner sweep wouldn't catch it.

Back inside, Peter examined the drug shipment—bricks upon bricks of white powder, each labeled with fake pharmaceutical branding. Millions, probably.

He walked back to the van and returned with a red plastic fuel canister—full to the brim.

Inside the warehouse, he dragged the unconscious bodies—carefully—into a rough pile near the center. He added the confiscated weapons—cheap, mass-produced junk, not worth keeping.

Peter unscrewed the fuel cap.

Then, without hesitation, he poured it across the floor—soaking the crates, the drugs, the bodies, the broken chairs.

He stepped back, ignited a flare, and dropped it into the center.

WHOOMPH.

Fire spread like anger, climbing the crates, turning paper, flesh, and poison into ash. The smoke was thick, chemical, choking.

Peter turned without looking back.

He watched from a nearby rooftop as black smoke curled into the sky, sirens still distant.

No one would trace it to him.

There were no symbols. No webs. No signature.

Just silence.

He climbed into the van, checked the hidden compartment once more, then pulled into traffic like any other delivery vehicle.

No one noticed.