The back lot behind St. Brigid's felt like a trap that had already decided how it ended.
Chain-link fence on three sides. A loading ramp with a rusted metal door on the fourth. Gravel underfoot that shifted when you ran—stealing traction, stealing confidence. A lone security light overhead that buzzed and flickered, turning everyone into moving shadows.
Headlights pinned them in place.
The black SUV idled at the alley mouth like it had all night in the world. Mr. Crane stood in front of it with the patience of a man who didn't need to hurry because he believed the math was already done.
Sol could feel the math too.
His spider-sense wasn't words. It wasn't visions. It was a full-body alarm that kept changing pitch—higher when Crane's attention sharpened, lower when a path opened. It told Sol one brutal truth over and over:
Crane was better at this than Sol was.
Crane's voice stayed soft. "Give yourself up… or I start breaking the people you care about."
Judy stepped closer to Sol, shoulder-to-shoulder. Hana hovered on his other side, hands clenched, eyes shining with fear and stubborn loyalty. Aaliyah planted herself slightly ahead—like she was willing to be the first thing Crane hit.
Sol's throat tightened.
The instinct to keep his friends safe collided with the instinct to survive, and the collision sparked something hot in his chest.
He didn't want them here.
He also—God help him—couldn't ignore what it meant that they stayed.
Sol forced his hands to unclench. Web strands clung between his fingers, sticky and tremoring like spider silk in a storm.
He tried to speak calmly and failed.
"No," he said, blunt and honest, voice shaking. "Try."
Crane's smile didn't move. "Okay."
He raised one hand—not toward Sol, but toward the SUV.
The rear door opened.
Two operatives stepped out like they were being unboxed: black gear, radios, gloves, and that canister rifle with the under-barrel tank that screamed *chemical compliance* instead of bullets.
Crane didn't look back at them. He didn't need to.
Sol's spider-sense screamed hard enough to make his teeth hurt.
Hana whispered, "Sol…"
Judy whispered, fierce, "I'm not leaving you."
Aaliyah snapped, "Less whispering. More moving."
Sol's head turned fast, scanning.
Chain-link fence. Gravel. Loading ramp. Dumpster. A stack of pallets. The emergency exit door they'd come through, still half-open behind them.
And overhead—pipes. Conduit. A security light mounted to a pole with wires running down.
Crane's stance was loose, casual. Not lazy. **Ready.** Like violence was just another language he spoke fluently.
Sol breathed in. Felt the wound pull beneath the bandage. Felt his ankle throb. Felt the web-pressure building in his wrists like a tide.
He had seconds. Maybe less.
He made a choice.
"Run," he told the girls.
Judy's eyes flashed. "No."
Sol cut her off, brutal honesty weaponized. "If you stay, he uses you."
Hana's lips parted, hurt and scared. "Sol—"
Aaliyah snapped, "He's right. Move."
Judy's jaw trembled, fury and fear mixing. "Sol—"
Sol looked at her hard. "I'm going to be right behind you."
He didn't believe it. But he needed them to.
Aaliyah grabbed Hana's wrist. "Come on."
Hana hesitated—just one heartbeat—eyes locked on Sol, then she moved, because Hana was brave but not stupid.
Judy backed up last, eyes still on Sol like she was trying to memorize him in case this was the last time.
Sol's chest burned.
He turned back to Crane and raised his wrists.
Crane watched him like a teacher watching a student pick the wrong answer and still confident the lesson would land.
"Show me," Crane said softly.
Sol did.
He fired a web line at the gravel in front of Crane's boots—low and wide.
*THWP.*
Then another, crossing.
*THWP.*
Then a third, anchoring into the fence, pulling taut like a tripwire net.
Crane moved anyway, stepping over the first line with clean precision.
Sol's spider-sense screamed—Crane was too fast.
Sol flicked his wrist again, shooting a strand at Crane's baton hand.
Crane's baton snapped up.
*CRACK.*
The baton clipped the web midair, cutting it like it was string.
Sol's stomach dropped.
Crane stepped in.
Sol's spider-sense detonated.
He shifted sideways instinctively—his body moving before his brain finished panicking.
Crane's baton missed Sol's head by inches and struck the chain-link fence behind him.
Metal rang.
Sol flinched at the sound even though he hadn't been hit.
Crane didn't waste that flinch.
His other hand shot forward, grabbing Sol's forearm—right where the web-pressure lived.
He twisted.
Pain tore through Sol's wrist.
Sol gasped, knees buckling.
Crane's voice stayed calm, almost bored. "You don't know how to fight yet."
Sol's jaw clenched.
"No," Sol rasped, "but I—"
He didn't finish.
He fired a web point-blank into Crane's chest.
*THWP.*
Crane's jacket took the web like Velcro.
Sol yanked hard, trying to pull Crane off balance.
Crane planted his feet and didn't budge.
He just used the tension to pull Sol forward and rammed his shoulder into Sol's ribs—right into the fresh wound.
Sol's vision went white.
He made a sound that wasn't dignified.
He stumbled, breath knocked out of him, and felt warm wetness spread under the bandage.
Crane stepped back, baton rising again. "You're bleeding."
Sol coughed, tasting iron. "Yeah."
Crane's baton came down toward Sol's knee.
Sol jumped back—barely.
The baton struck gravel with a crunch.
And Sol's spider-sense screamed **NOW**.
Sol reacted like the scream had grabbed his spine.
He fired a web at the baton's tip as it struck the ground.
*THWP.*
The web stuck to the baton and anchored to the gravel in the same motion—like he'd thrown a leash around the weapon.
Crane yanked.
The baton didn't move.
Crane's eyes narrowed a fraction. The first sign he was adjusting.
Sol yanked back.
The baton jerked toward Sol's side like it wanted to obey him.
Crane stepped forward into it, using his body weight to free the baton—violent tug, controlled.
Sol felt the web line go taut, burn across his palm.
His shoulder screamed.
Crane's foot shot out and stomped the web line hard against gravel, pinning it.
Then Crane stepped over it and advanced, baton free.
Sol's spider-sense spiked.
He jumped again—too late.
Crane's baton clipped Sol's shoulder.
Pain flared, sharp and deep.
Sol stumbled, nearly fell.
The operatives behind Crane started moving in a slow arc, cutting off angles—herding.
Sol saw the canister rifle lift.
He saw the under-barrel tank.
He smelled the faint chemical tang in the air even before it fired.
Sol's spider-sense screamed.
He didn't run from Crane.
He ran **at** the operative with the rifle.
It was stupid.
It was also the only move Crane wouldn't expect, because people didn't rush the weapon.
Sol rushed anyway.
The operative's eyes widened behind his mask. He tried to swing the rifle up.
Sol fired a web at the rifle barrel.
*THWP.*
The web glued it to the operative's chest.
Sol fired another strand at the rifle's stock and anchored it to the fence.
*THWP.*
The operative yanked.
The fence rattled.
The rifle stayed stuck.
The operative cursed and reached for a knife.
Crane moved—fast—closing the distance between him and Sol like a shadow snapping into place.
Crane's baton came for Sol's head.
Sol ducked.
Crane's baton missed and struck the operative instead—cracking across the operative's forearm with a sound like breaking wood.
The operative screamed.
Crane didn't even look at him. He was already turning the baton back toward Sol.
Sol's stomach dropped.
Crane didn't care about friendly fire.
He cared about results.
Sol's spider-sense screamed again—**left**—and Sol jumped left.
Crane's baton grazed Sol's cheek, splitting skin.
Warm blood ran down Sol's face.
Sol hissed, blinking, the world narrowing.
Crane stepped in, calm as a machine.
"You're improvising," Crane said. "Good."
Then his voice turned colder.
"It won't be enough."
Sol spat blood, jaw shaking with rage. "You talk too much."
Crane's mouth twitched, almost amused. "You don't talk enough."
Sol's web-pressure surged suddenly, like his body had decided *we're doing this now.*
His wrists ached. His palms tingled.
Sol's thoughts flickered—physics, angles, anchors.
He didn't know martial arts.
He knew Chicago. He knew corners. He knew how to survive being smaller than problems.
He looked up.
The security light.
The pole.
The wire conduit running down it.
An idea hit him like a spark.
Sol fired a web line up at the security light housing.
*THWP.*
The web stuck.
He fired another line to the pole near the base.
*THWP.*
Then—without giving himself time to think—he yanked hard sideways.
The web line went taut.
The security light housing creaked.
Metal groaned.
The pole shook.
Crane glanced up—just a fraction of attention diverted.
That fraction was all Sol needed.
Sol lunged at Crane—low, fast—aiming not for Crane's head or chest but for his **legs**.
He fired a web line at Crane's right ankle.
*THWP.*
Then another at the left.
*THWP.*
Crane reacted instantly—kicking, twisting, trying to free himself.
Sol anchored both web lines behind Crane—one to the fence, one to the dumpster.
He yanked them tight like he was tying a knot around Crane's mobility.
Crane's feet stuck for half a heartbeat.
Crane didn't fall.
He adjusted his stance, knees bending, baton swinging down at the web lines to cut them.
Sol's spider-sense screamed.
Sol moved before the baton hit, stepping in and grabbing Crane's baton arm with both hands.
His palms stuck to Crane's sleeve.
Crane's eyes widened a fraction.
Sol yanked hard.
Crane's baton arm jerked.
Crane twisted his torso and drove an elbow into Sol's jaw.
Sol saw stars.
His knees wobbled.
But his hands stayed stuck.
Crane's face stayed calm, but his breathing changed—just slightly heavier.
Sol realized something.
Crane wasn't superhuman.
Crane was just very, very good.
That meant he could be beaten.
Barely.
Sol tightened his grip and did something brutal and simple:
He headbutted Crane again.
Their foreheads slammed.
Crane's nose crunched for the second time.
Blood sprayed—dark, wet.
Crane staggered back, anger finally flashing across his face like lightning.
"Enough," Crane hissed.
He ripped his arm free—tearing fabric—and slammed his baton into Sol's ribs again.
Sol screamed.
His legs almost gave.
Crane grabbed Sol by the hoodie collar and pulled him in close.
Crane's voice went low. "You think this is about you?"
Sol coughed. Blood dripped from his chin.
Crane leaned in. "It's about what you are."
Sol's spider-sense screamed.
Crane's hand moved toward Sol's wrist—toward the bite marks—toward the exact place Crane would restrain him.
Sol acted on pure instinct.
He fired a web into Crane's **mouth.**
*THWP.*
It was disgusting.
It was desperate.
It was perfect.
Crane's eyes went wide.
The web sealed his lips, stuck to teeth, gagged him mid-breath.
Crane jerked back, choking, clawing at his face.
Sol stumbled away, gasping, pain tearing through him like hooks.
Judy's voice echoed faintly from somewhere beyond the fence—"SOL!"
He couldn't look.
He had to finish this.
Crane ripped the web off his mouth in ragged chunks, breathing hard now, anger exposed.
His calm mask was cracking.
And that—Sol realized—was the first time tonight Crane looked human.
Crane stepped forward again, baton raised.
The operatives behind him were recovering, moving to flank again.
One lifted the canister rifle, adjusting aim.
Sol's spider-sense screamed.
Sol looked around like a trapped animal and saw the one thing he'd forgotten:
The gravel.
Gravel wasn't stable.
Gravel could be used.
Sol fired webs low—rapid-fire—across the ground between Crane and the operatives.
*THWP THWP THWP.*
Sticky sheets, not ropes—like spilled glue.
Crane stepped onto it.
His boot stuck.
He adjusted instantly, trying to shift weight.
Sol yanked the web sheet sideways, pulling it like a rug.
Crane's boot slid.
Crane's balance—perfect a moment ago—wavered.
Not enough to drop him.
Enough to change his timing.
Sol's spider-sense screamed **NOW** again, louder than ever.
Sol didn't attack Crane directly.
He attacked the environment.
He fired a web line at the chain-link fence behind Crane's shoulder.
*THWP.*
Then another at the fence behind him.
*THWP.*
Then—fast—he fired a web line at the security light pole and anchored it to the fence too.
*THWP.*
He created a triangle of tension.
A crude web geometry.
Crane saw it—eyes narrowing.
Too late.
Sol yanked.
The security light pole—already loosened from Sol's earlier pull—jerked violently.
The conduit wires snapped free.
The light housing tore loose with a metallic shriek and swung down like a pendulum.
Crane reacted—fast—ducking—
But the swinging light wasn't aimed at his head.
It slammed into his baton arm.
Metal cracked against bone.
Crane grunted, pain finally audible.
His baton flew from his hand, clattering into the gravel.
Sol's heart jumped.
Weapon dropped.
That was a real opening.
Crane moved to recover the baton anyway.
Sol's spider-sense screamed.
Sol fired a web directly onto the baton and yanked it toward himself.
The baton skidded across the gravel and stuck to Sol's palm like it wanted to belong to him now.
Sol stared at it for one stunned half-second.
Then he remembered who he was.
He wasn't Crane.
He wasn't a trained killer.
He was an eighteen-year-old kid with a bleeding wound and too much power.
He didn't want to beat Crane by becoming him.
So he didn't swing the baton.
He threw it.
Hard.
He webbed it to the fence mid-throw.
*THWP.*
The baton whipped away, anchored, now out of reach—hanging like a pinned insect.
Crane's eyes flicked to it, then back to Sol, expression shifting.
Not fear.
Respect.
A cold kind.
"You're learning," Crane said, voice rougher now. "Good."
Sol spat blood again, breath shaking. "Yeah."
Crane's hands came up—empty now—fists.
He stepped in with a boxer's efficiency, driving a punch toward Sol's throat.
Sol's spider-sense screamed **DOWN**.
Sol dropped, the punch whistling over his head.
Sol fired a web at Crane's knee as he dropped.
*THWP.*
Crane's knee stuck for a beat.
Crane tried to pull free.
Sol used that beat to do something that felt insane:
He jumped straight up, fired a web above Crane to the fence, and yanked himself sideways like a slingshot.
It wasn't swinging like the myth.
It was more like using his own web as a grappling line, snapping himself through space unpredictably.
He slammed shoulder-first into Crane's side with the momentum of a human wrecking ball.
Crane staggered.
Sol's shoulder screamed.
Sol didn't stop.
He fired another web line to the ground behind Crane, then yanked—hard—pulling Crane's legs out from under him.
Crane fell.
Not gracefully.
He hit gravel on his back with a breathless grunt.
Sol's chest heaved.
He stood over Crane, shaking, blood dripping, bandage soaked again.
He could end it here.
He could web Crane up and run.
But the operatives were still there.
And Crane was still Crane.
Crane rolled, reaching for Sol's ankle—trying to take him down too.
Sol's spider-sense screamed.
Sol jumped back, avoiding the grab by inches.
Crane sprang up—fast, too fast for someone who'd just hit the ground.
Crane's fist slammed into Sol's face.
Pain exploded.
Sol's head snapped sideways.
His vision blurred.
He tasted blood again, fresh.
Crane grabbed Sol by the front of the hoodie and drove him backward into the fence.
Chain-link bit into Sol's spine.
Crane leaned in, eyes hard. "You're out of time."
Sol's spider-sense screamed—**the rifle**.
Sol's head turned just enough to see an operative raising the canister launcher.
Sol knew what happened next.
Gas. Mist. Suffocation. Collapsing. Waking up in a Helix van.
He couldn't let that happen.
Sol's wrists pulsed with pressure like a heartbeat.
He didn't think.
He fired webbing straight into the operative's weapon—clogging the barrel, the seams, the trigger guard.
*THWP THWP.*
The operative yanked, cursed.
Crane used the distraction to slam his knee into Sol's stomach again.
Sol folded.
Crane whispered, low and furious, "Stop resisting."
Sol's anger snapped something inside him.
He wasn't resisting for pride.
He was resisting for his mother. For his sister. For the three girls who had stayed.
Sol's voice came out like a growl. "No."
He raised both wrists—not toward Crane, but toward himself.
And did something that even he didn't expect:
He webbed his own feet.
Two quick strands from wrist to boot to fence.
*THWP THWP.*
He anchored himself like a climber.
Crane tried to yank him away from the fence.
Sol didn't move.
Crane blinked, surprised.
Sol used that moment to twist his torso and fire a web at Crane's face—again—but this time he didn't aim for the mouth.
He aimed for the **eyes**.
*THWP.*
The web splattered across Crane's eyes like a blindfold made of glue.
Crane cursed, hands flying up to rip it off.
Sol's spider-sense screamed.
Sol moved, yanking his own foot webs free by peeling them off the fence and using the recoil momentum to launch forward.
He crashed into Crane and drove him backward—blind—into the loading ramp wall.
Crane's head hit metal with a dull, sick sound.
Crane grunted, stunned for half a heartbeat.
Sol didn't waste it.
He fired webs—rapid—layering them around Crane's arms and torso.
*THWP THWP THWP.*
Wrapping like a cocoon.
Crane fought, ripping at the webbing, muscles straining.
Sol could see the strength in Crane now—how dense he was, how controlled. Crane wasn't superhuman, but he was powerful.
And Sol's webbing… wasn't infinite.
His wrists burned. His forearms cramped. The pressure shifted into pain.
Sol's vision swam.
He was going to pass out.
Not later.
Soon.
Crane tore one arm partly free.
Sol's spider-sense screamed.
Sol did the last unpredictable thing he could think of:
He webbed Crane's free hand to Crane's own chest.
*THWP.*
Then webbed Crane's elbow to his ribs.
*THWP.*
He used Crane's body as the anchor.
Crane's hand stuck uselessly against himself, fighting his own web.
Crane's breath came harder now, the first real sign of exertion.
Sol backed up, shaking, blood dripping from his chin onto gravel.
Crane growled, ripping at webbing with brutal force.
Sol realized, with sick clarity:
Crane would break out.
It wasn't a question of if.
It was a question of whether Sol could move before then.
Sol's spider-sense screamed again—operatives closing.
He turned his head.
One operative was already moving toward him with zip cuffs.
The other was fighting his gummed-up rifle, trying to clear it.
Sol's heart hammered.
He couldn't fight them all.
He had to make a choice.
He looked at Crane in the cocoon.
Crane was the brain.
Crane was the leash.
If Sol cut the leash, the dogs might hesitate.
Sol's chest heaved.
He made his choice.
He rushed Crane—fast—before the operatives could grab him.
Crane's webbed head turned slightly, listening—still blind.
Sol grabbed Crane's jacket collar and leaned in close, voice shaking with fury and fear.
"You tell Helix," Sol rasped, "if they touch my family… I will come back."
Crane's laugh was low, ugly. "You won't know where."
Sol's honesty snapped back, sharp. "Then I'll find out."
Sol yanked Crane's head sideways and slammed it—not into the wall this time, but into the metal loading ramp edge.
It was brutal.
It was desperate.
It was exactly the kind of thing Sol never wanted to do.
Crane went limp for a second, a stunned, involuntary blackout.
Not dead.
Just out.
Sol stumbled back, shaking, bile rising in his throat.
He'd just knocked a man unconscious with a metal edge.
He could feel the line he'd crossed.
He hated it.
But he was still free.
And freedom meant his mother might still get her son back.
The operative with the zip cuffs lunged.
Sol's spider-sense screamed.
Sol fired a web at the operative's feet and yanked, pulling him down.
The operative hit gravel hard, grunt knocked out.
Sol didn't stop to admire it.
He turned and ran—limping, bleeding—toward the fence where he'd last heard Judy's voice.
He fired a web high, anchored it, and hauled himself up—raw strength overcoming pain.
His ankle screamed.
His ribs burned.
His wrists felt like they were on fire.
He crested the fence and dropped to the other side in a messy roll.
Judy was there—eyes wide, hands shaking—along with Hana and Aaliyah in the shadow of the outreach center's side alley.
Hana gasped when she saw Sol's face. "Sol—oh my God—"
Judy grabbed him, half-hugging, half-checking for injuries. "You're bleeding more."
Aaliyah stared past him, eyes sharp. "Where's Crane."
Sol panted, voice rough. "Down."
Aaliyah blinked. "Like… down down?"
Sol swallowed, jaw shaking. "Unconscious."
Hana's hand flew to her mouth, horrified and relieved at the same time.
Judy stared at Sol's hands—sticky with webbing, trembling. "You… you beat him?"
Sol shook his head once, honest even now. "Barely."
His knees wobbled.
Hana caught him instantly, arms wrapping around his waist to steady him.
Sol felt her warmth, the press of her body, and for one insane second his brain tried to notice it again—
He shoved the thought away and focused on not collapsing.
Aaliyah grabbed his other side. "Move. They'll recover."
Judy nodded hard. "My mom. We call my mom."
Sol's phone buzzed in his pocket again.
He didn't need to check to know it was his mother, still waiting, still terrified.
Sol's throat tightened.
He didn't answer it yet.
Not because he didn't love her.
Because if he answered and Helix traced it, he might lead the wolves right back to her door.
He swallowed the guilt like glass and nodded.
"Okay," Sol rasped. "Call her."
Judy already had her phone out, fingers shaking as she dialed.
Hana kept pressure at Sol's side through the hoodie, voice low. "You need to sit. You need to stop moving."
Sol's honesty came out as a whisper. "If I stop, I'm scared I won't get back up."
Hana looked into his eyes. "Then we'll get you back up."
Aaliyah scanned the street, jaw clenched. "Less romance. More survival."
Judy shot her a glare without looking away from the call. "Not romance. Triage."
Aaliyah muttered, "Same thing in this anime."
Sol almost laughed.
It came out like a cough.
Blood flecked his lip.
Hana's face tightened in alarm. "Sol—"
Judy's call connected.
Dr. Ward's voice hit the line, sharp and panicked. "Judith—where are you—"
Judy spoke fast, trembling. "Mom, it happened. They found us. Crane found us. Sol fought him—he's hurt—please—"
Dr. Ward's voice snapped into control. "Slow down. Are you safe *right now*?"
Judy looked at Sol.
Sol's spider-sense buzzed faintly—no immediate danger, but storm still out there.
Sol nodded once.
Judy said, "For the moment. But they're close."
Dr. Ward's voice went low. "Listen to me. There's a place. Not Helix property. An old satellite clinic we used before the company bought half the city. I'll text you the address. Do not go to a hospital. Do not call the police."
Aaliyah muttered, "Of course."
Dr. Ward continued, voice urgent. "And Solomon—if you can hear me—"
Sol leaned in slightly, voice hoarse. "I'm here."
A pause.
Then Dr. Ward's voice softened—barely. "I'm sorry."
Sol's chest tightened.
He didn't forgive her.
Not yet.
But he needed her.
"Help me," Sol said bluntly. "Help my mom. Help my sister."
Dr. Ward's voice hardened again. "I will. Now move. Quickly. And no phones once you're en route."
Judy swallowed. "Okay."
The call ended.
Aaliyah exhaled. "Alright. We have a destination."
Hana tightened her grip on Sol. "And we have a bleeding idiot."
Sol tried to grin. "Hey. I'm a bleeding idiot with a win."
Judy's eyes shone. "Barely."
Sol nodded. "Barely."
Behind them, in the distance, an engine revved.
A door slammed.
Sol's spider-sense buzzed louder.
Aaliyah's head snapped toward the sound. "They're moving again."
Judy looked at Sol, voice shaking. "Can you swing us?"
Sol stared at his wrists, already aching, already cramping.
He swallowed hard.
His honesty came out like a confession. "I don't know if I can do it clean."
Aaliyah said, fierce, "Then do it ugly."
Hana whispered, steady, "We'll hold on."
Sol looked at them—three girls in the dark with him, scared and stubborn and loyal.
He nodded once.
"Okay," Sol rasped. "Ugly."
He raised his wrists.
The pressure surged.
And Sol Smith—blood on his mouth, webbing on his hands, fear in his ribs—fired a line into the night and pulled them forward into whatever came next.