Spider-Man: At breaking point

Chapter Three: Marked For Death

The night was still, too still for New York City. It was as if the entire borough held its breath, waiting for something to break the eerie silence. Perched atop a building overlooking the scene of the recent attack, Spider-Man scanned the area below, his eyes narrowed behind the lenses of his mask.

The destruction was absolute. Where a modest home had once stood, there was now only debris and the unmistakable scent of burnt wood and shattered lives. Peter's heart clenched as he remembered the panic in the victim’s eyes—a man who had once been saved by Spider-Man but now was little more than a casualty in someone else’s war. The police were still combing through the wreckage, trying to piece together what had happened, but Peter already knew they wouldn’t find anything.

Except for the symbol.

Spider-Man’s gaze drifted back to the one thing that stood out among the devastation: the scythe symbol, carved into the rubble like a signature. The edges were clean, deliberate. Whoever did this had taken their time, making sure it was unmistakable—a message, a taunt.

Peter had seen his fair share of villains and their twisted calling cards, but this was different. The simplicity of the symbol, combined with the devastation surrounding it, sent a shiver down his spine. This wasn’t just about causing chaos; this was about sending a clear and chilling message.

But what did it mean? Who was this “Reaper,” and why target someone Peter had saved years ago?

Determined to find answers, Peter began his search. He swung low, using the cover of darkness to stay out of sight as he moved through the neighborhood. His spider-sense tingled, not with danger, but with an unsettling feeling that something wasn’t right.

As he moved, Peter noticed something odd—small, almost imperceptible symbols spray-painted on walls, lampposts, and even the sides of buildings. At first glance, they looked like random graffiti, but upon closer inspection, they matched the scythe emblem left at the scene of the attack.

Peter’s brow furrowed as he crouched beside one of the symbols, running his fingers over the faded paint. It was crudely drawn, almost as if it had been done in a hurry, but the design was unmistakable. He moved further down the street and found another, then another. The symbols were everywhere, scattered across the neighborhood like breadcrumbs leading him deeper into the unknown.

But despite the abundance of symbols, there was nothing else. No clues, no leads, no sign of the Reaper himself. It was as if the symbols were mocking him, daring him to find meaning in their meaningless presence.

“What the hell is going on?” Peter muttered to himself, frustration boiling beneath the surface. Whoever the Reaper was, he was playing a dangerous game, and Peter was running out of patience.

He continued his search, methodically mapping out the locations of each symbol, hoping they would form a pattern or give him some clue as to what the Reaper’s next move might be. But as the hours dragged on, the pattern remained elusive. The symbols were spread out seemingly at random, with no rhyme or reason to their placement.

Finally, Spider-Man came to a stop on the roof of a nearby building, overlooking the neighborhood he had just scoured. His breath was heavy, not from exertion but from the weight of uncertainty pressing down on him. Whoever this Reaper was, they had thought this through. They had a plan, and Peter was struggling to keep up.

As he stood there, lost in thought, a sharp sense of danger flared in his spider-sense, but it was too late. A powerful force slammed into him from behind, sending him flying off the edge of the roof. Peter twisted in midair, managing to fire a webline at the last second, pulling himself back onto the rooftop with a graceless thud.

Dazed, Peter looked up, only to see a dark figure standing on the edge of the roof, silhouetted against the city lights. The Reaper.

The villain’s presence was as menacing as his name. Clad in his dark suit, with the red scythe emblem glowing faintly on his chest, he looked every bit the harbinger of death he claimed to be. The Reaper tilted his head slightly, as if amused by Peter’s struggle to regain his footing.

“So, you’ve finally noticed,” the Reaper said, his voice a cold, low rasp that echoed in the night air. “I was beginning to wonder if I’d have to burn down half the city just to get your attention.”

Peter got to his feet, his muscles tense and ready for a fight. “What do you want?” he demanded, his voice laced with anger. “Why are you doing this? Who the hell are you?”

The Reaper stepped forward, his presence dominating the rooftop. “Who am I?” he repeated, his tone mocking. “I’m someone you’ve long forgotten, Spider-Man. Just another face in the crowd, another life you saved and then discarded.”

Peter’s eyes narrowed behind his mask. “I save people. I don’t discard them.”

The Reaper let out a dark, humorless laugh. “You save them, sure. You swoop in, beat up the bad guys, and then you leave, off to your next adventure. But what happens to those you save, Parker? What happens when the world goes back to normal, and they’re left to pick up the pieces of their shattered lives?”

Peter’s blood ran cold at the mention of his name. This was personal. The Reaper knew who he was—who he really was.

“Let me guess,” the Reaper continued, his voice dripping with contempt. “You don’t think about them, do you? You don’t care about the nightmares they wake up to every night, the lives that are still in ruins long after you’re gone. You move on. You forget. But I don’t forget, Parker. I remember everything.”

Peter clenched his fists, the words striking deeper than any physical blow. “What do you want from me? You think you can hurt me by going after people I’ve saved? What’s the point?”

“The point?” The Reaper’s voice grew darker, more sinister. “The point is to show you that your so-called heroism has consequences. That every life you save leaves behind a shadow, a reminder of the pain and destruction you cause. I’m going to make you see that, Parker. I’m going to make you feel it.”

Peter didn’t have time to respond before the Reaper lunged at him, the gleaming blade of his scythe flashing in the moonlight. Peter barely managed to dodge the first strike, rolling to the side as the blade sliced through the air where his head had been just moments before.

The two clashed on the rooftop, a deadly dance of webs and blades, but Peter could feel the weight of the Reaper’s words pressing down on him. This wasn’t just another villain. This was someone with a vendetta, someone who had been watching, waiting, planning.

And Peter had no idea how to stop him.

As the fight raged on, the Reaper’s voice cut through the chaos like a knife. “You’re not a hero, Spider-Man. You’re a curse. And I’m going to make sure everyone sees you for what you really are.”

With a final, powerful blow, the Reaper knocked Peter off balance, sending him crashing to the ground. The impact left Peter dazed, struggling to catch his breath. But before he could even think of getting up, the Reaper was gone—vanished into the night as if he had never been there.

Peter lay on the rooftop, staring up at the sky, his mind racing. The Reaper had left him with more questions than answers, and a gnawing sense of dread that this was far from over.

Whoever the Reaper was, he was playing a deadly game. And Peter was running out of time to figure out the rules.