Peter Parker

Brooklyn Docks, Lot 47C

The call came in just after four.

"Warehouse fire, possible chemical involvement," the dispatcher had said. "Brooklyn Industrial Sector. Lot 47C."

Ladder 12 was first on scene.

Captain Luis Ortega stood on the edge of the cordoned-off lot, helmet tucked under one arm, staring up at the charred remains of the warehouse. Smoke still curled into the night sky, swirling into the early dawn haze.

"Whole place went up like it was waiting for an excuse," he muttered.

Beside him, firefighter Derek Nolan swept a flashlight across the warped metal of the main entrance. The doors had collapsed inward, twisted by the heat. Black soot stained every surface.

"Too hot for a short circuit," Derek said. "Had to be accelerant."

Ortega nodded grimly. "Start a perimeter sweep. See if the floor's stable before we send in the rookies."

Inside, the place smelled like a funeral pyre and a chemical spill had a baby. Burnt wood, scorched metal, and the acidic tang of something synthetic. The fire had eaten everything it could, but hadn't touched the roof—someone had wanted it to cook, not collapse.

The heat had done its work.

They found the bodies ten minutes later.

"Captain!"

Ortega jogged across the blackened floor, careful of cracked concrete. Nolan stood near the center of the structure, helmet light reflecting off something.

Ortega slowed.

Then stopped.

In the heart of the ash, surrounded by half-melted crates and crumbling steel... lay a pile of bodies. Stacked. Arranged.

Twelve of them. Maybe more.

They were blackened, but not dismembered. No signs of explosive trauma. The fire had consumed them after they were down.

Next to the bodies were scorched weapons—burnt beyond use, but still identifiable as firearms. Cheap, bulk-manufactured stuff. SMGs. Pistols. A couple of carbines.

"What in the actual hell..." Nolan whispered.

Ortega's mouth was tight.

"Call it in. We've got a mass casualty scene. And get Hazmat—those crates are laced with something. I want to know if we're standing in a drug factory."

The black-and-whites rolled in with lights flashing low. A pair of unmarked sedans followed—detectives. Crime Scene Unit.

Detective Mira Vale stepped out of the second sedan, coffee in hand, dark jacket slung over her shoulder. She took one look at the building and swore under her breath.

"Did a war start without telling me?"

Ortega met her near the cordon.

"We got a call about a fire. Looks like the flames got into a stockpile of chemicals. Possible meth or coke lab."

"And the bodies?" Vale asked.

"Twelve. Maybe more. No explosion trauma, no blood spatter. Looks like they were dead before the fire."

Vale raised a brow. "Mass execution?"

Ortega shook his head. "We didn't find bullet casings. No sign of a firefight."

Vale sipped her coffee, scowling.

"Let me guess—nobody heard anything."

"One witness. Saw smoke, called it in. Nobody close enough to see who lit the match."

Inside the warehouse, crime scene techs were already at work. Yellow markers dotted the floor like confetti at a funeral. Photos were taken. Samples bagged.

Detective Vale walked in slowly, flashlight in one hand, eyes scanning everything.

Her partner, Detective Mackenzie, was crouched near one of the crates.

"Still got residue in this one," he said. "High-grade narcotics. Not street corner crap—this was packaged for serious export."

Vale knelt by the safe. Its door was warped and bent open, split like cheap aluminum.

She frowned.

"This wasn't opened with tools. It was ripped open."

Mackenzie looked over. "You saying we've got a metahuman on our hands?"

"Or someone with access to military-grade gear," she replied.

Mackenzie stood up and gestured around. "Why torch it after the fact? Whoever did this could've walked away with the whole stash."

"Maybe they did. Maybe this is cleanup."

Vale looked over the body pile.

"If this is a gang hit, it's too clean. If it's turf war, it's too quiet. No spray tags, no warnings, no retaliation yet."

Mackenzie scratched his chin. "You thinking vigilante?"

"Not like the Spider," Vale said. "He doesn't torch places. He webs 'em."

They both looked up at the rafters. No webs. No sign of wall crawling. No red and blue.

Just fire.

Back outside, Ortega finished talking to his crew as Vale walked over.

"We've seen gang labs go up before," Ortega said, wiping sweat from his forehead. "But this one? It didn't burn wild. It burned with intention."

Vale nodded. "Yeah. Like someone wanted this place erased."

"You get arson in your department or mine?" he asked.

"Joint, for now. Until we figure out if it's cartel work or someone wearing a cape."

Ortega glanced back at the smoke curling from the warehouse.

"You think this was one of the masked types?"

Vale shrugged. "If it was... it wasn't one of the friendly ones."

CSU had found a few partial prints—burned to partials. No DNA left. One fuel canister, mostly melted. No serial number. No footage.

Vale flipped through the tablet handed to her by a tech.

"No camera logs. Internal system was disabled before the fire started. No loops. Just blackouts."

Mackenzie looked up from his notes. "So let's summarize: Someone takes out fifteen guys without a sound, robs the safe, burns the place down, and erases every piece of surveillance."

Vale nodded. "And leaves the bodies in a pile, like garbage."

"And still, no signature."

Vale glanced back at the burnt-out shell of the building.

"No tag. No calling card. No message."

"Not even Spider-Man's smug sticky notes," Mackenzie added.

Ortega walked up again, this time carrying a tablet with temperature data.

"Whoever burned it," he said, "used accelerant. Cheap stuff, too. Hardware store grade."

"No pro firebombing," Vale muttered. "Closer to... controlled disposal."

Mackenzie frowned. "Disposal of what?"

Vale turned to look at the building one last time.

"Drugs. Bodies. Evidence. Noise."

She handed the tablet back to Ortega.

"And whoever did it didn't want to be thanked."