"John, did you see that? Someone's flying!"
"No way. You've had too much to drink."
"Oh God—no, I swear, it's real! He's actually flying!"
Along the edge of the commercial district, the usual noise of street performers and wandering crowds broke apart into startled silence. People stopped mid-step, mid-conversation, mid-song, all of them looking up at the same impossible sight. Shock spread across their faces as if it were contagious.
A man with a violin case tapped the air with his foot—and then rose.
There was no jump, no visible support, no trick of wires or platforms. He simply stepped upward like gravity had politely decided to stop applying to him. One step, then another, until he was several stories above the street, drifting higher with calm, controlled motion.
Physics, it seemed, had just been ignored.
Locke didn't bother looking down. The reaction was predictable, and frankly, not his problem. The only reason this little display didn't instantly blow his cover was the silver-gray mask covering his face. Without it, the moment someone recognized him as the Butcher, the panic would've been a lot louder—and a lot uglier.
He exhaled steadily, adjusting his posture midair as the wind pressed against him. The technique flowed naturally through his body, each movement precise, efficient, and almost effortless now that he'd fully integrated it.
"Four kilometers," he calculated quietly, eyes narrowing toward the direction of Queens. "Straight line. If I push it, I can make it in two minutes."
A faint grin tugged at his lips, sharp and eager.
"Hang tight, Spider-Man," he murmured. "Don't finish the party without me."
Then he accelerated.
The air rippled faintly around him as his speed climbed, his figure slicing forward like a streak of gray through the skyline. Buildings blurred past beneath him, the city shrinking into a distant backdrop as his focus locked onto the unfolding fight ahead.
A few streets away, far below the surface, the atmosphere couldn't have been more different.
Inside a dim subway station, the tension was suffocating.
Sandman stood near the platform edge, both arms loaded with cash boxes, his breathing uneven despite the transformation of his body. The exit was right there—just a short dash away—but he didn't move.
He couldn't.
Because Spider-Man had already caught up.
A sharp sound cut through the air.
"Thwip!"
The snap of webbing echoed through the station, and in the next instant, Peter Parker dropped down in front of him. The black suit clung tightly to his frame, darker and more menacing than usual, the subtle movement of the symbiote crawling across its surface like something alive.
This wasn't the friendly neighborhood version.
This was something else.
Without hesitation, Spider-Man flicked his wrist again. A chunk of broken concrete tore free under the pull of webbing and came hurtling forward like a missile. Sandman barely had time to react, stumbling sideways as the projectile smashed into the ground where he'd been standing.
Before he could recover, Peter was already moving.
Fast.
Too fast.
He closed the distance in a blink and drove a brutal kick straight into Sandman's torso, sending him crashing into the stone wall behind him. The impact echoed through the station, rattling loose debris and shaking dust from the ceiling.
The cash boxes flew from his grasp, slamming against the ground and splitting open. Bundles of dollars spilled out, scattering across the concrete like fallen leaves.
For a split second, Sandman's eyes locked onto the money.
Then something inside him snapped.
"You damn bastard!" he roared, his voice raw with fury and desperation. "Why do you keep coming after me?!"
It wasn't just anger—it was frustration, exhaustion, and a kind of helpless rage that came from being pushed over and over again with no way out. He hadn't gone on a killing spree. He hadn't tried to burn the world down.
He just needed money.
Money to keep his daughter alive.
And this—this costumed obstacle—kept tearing that chance away from him every single time.
"That's enough!" Sandman snarled, stepping hard onto the sand scattered along the tracks.
The ground responded instantly.
Grains of sand surged upward, flowing like liquid, wrapping around his body and expanding outward. His arms swelled grotesquely, stretching and thickening until they became massive constructs of compacted sand.
In seconds, they were enormous.
Towering.
Each one easily ten feet long.
With a roar, he swung.
"Take this!"
The sand fist came crashing down with explosive force, smashing into the platform and sending a shockwave rippling through the station. Dust and debris erupted into the air, obscuring everything in a choking cloud.
From within it, a black figure shot backward.
Spider-Man flipped midair, landing lightly against a metal support structure. His hand shot out, webbing anchoring him in place as he steadied himself, completely unharmed.
"Wow," he said, almost impressed, tilting his head slightly. "That had to be, what, ten tons?"
His tone shifted, sharpening with something darker underneath.
"Let's see how you handle mine."
He launched himself forward.
The clash that followed was immediate and violent.
"Bang!"
"Bang!!"
Each strike landed with enough force to crack concrete and shake the ground beneath them. Sandman's massive limbs collided with Spider-Man's enhanced blows, the impact sending tremors through the station like a miniature earthquake.
Chunks of the platform broke loose. Dust filled the air. The structure groaned under the strain.
Passengers who had been waiting for the train didn't hesitate—they ran.
Panic spread through the station as people scrambled toward the exits, shoving past each other, desperate to get away from what felt like a battle between gods. No one wanted to be anywhere near the center of it.
Through it all, neither side gained a clear advantage.
For a time, they were evenly matched.
But once the last of the civilians disappeared up the stairs, something in Spider-Man changed.
He landed lightly on the platform, rolling his shoulders as if loosening up. Then he tilted his head, resting it casually against his palm, his posture almost lazy.
"That's it?" he said, his voice dripping with disdain. "That's all you've got? I'm getting bored."
Sandman froze for half a second, disbelief flashing across his face before rage took over completely.
"Damn crawler!"
He drove his foot down, pulling more sand into himself, his body expanding again—larger, heavier, more monstrous. The ground cracked under the added weight as he charged forward, each step shaking the platform.
"Boom!"
"Boom!"
The reinforced concrete split under the pressure, fractures spreading like spiderwebs beneath him. His massive form loomed over the station, every movement carrying destructive force.
A single punch from that size could collapse half the structure.
And yet—
Spider-Man didn't back down.
Not even a little.
As Sandman's attack came down, part of the black symbiote peeled away from Peter's head, forming a grotesque skull-like shape that flickered into existence before snapping back into place. The effect was brief, but unsettling—something predatory lurking just beneath the surface.
Then he moved.
Fast.
Relentless.
He closed the distance and started swinging.
One punch.
Two.
Three.
Each hit landed cleanly, driving into Sandman's massive body with crushing force. Sand scattered from the impact points, chunks of his form breaking apart under the barrage.
Sandman staggered.
Then staggered again.
The massive figure began to collapse inward, his structure destabilizing under the relentless assault. He was forced backward step by step, losing ground with every blow until he was teetering dangerously close to the tracks.
Spider-Man didn't give him a second to recover.
He surged forward, grabbing Sandman's head and slamming it down onto the front of an oncoming subway train.
The screech of metal against metal tore through the station.
Sandman screamed.
Even with his body transformed, the pain was real—sharp, overwhelming, and impossible to ignore. His consciousness flickered as the structure of his head began to break apart under the grinding force.
Fear crept in.
Cold.
Unavoidable.
He struggled, thrashing like a drowning man, trying to pull free, but Spider-Man's grip was absolute. The black-gloved hand clamped around his neck like a vice, unmoving, unyielding.
No matter how hard he fought—
He couldn't escape.
Behind the mask, Peter's expression twisted, the thrill of violence seeping into every movement. There was a raw satisfaction in it, something addictive, like scratching an itch he hadn't realized was there.
He pressed harder.
Enjoying it.
And then—
"Click."
"Click."
The sharp sound of a camera shutter cut cleanly through the chaos.
Spider-Man's head snapped up.
Standing a short distance away, a man with a violin case lowered a small camera, a wide grin visible beneath his mask as he gave a casual wave.
Locke tilted his head slightly, voice light, almost conversational.
"My friend, that was incredible," he said. "Seriously, I couldn't keep that to myself."
He lifted the camera slightly, tapping it with one finger.
"I'm thinking of sending this to the Daily News," he went on, his tone playful but edged with something sharper underneath. "Headline's already writing itself—Spider-Man Unleashes His Power and Crushes Sandman's Head."