Spider-Man: At breaking point

Chapter Seven: The Descent

The city’s skyline blurred as Peter swung through the night, the cool wind doing little to clear the fog clouding his mind. His fists were still trembling from the brutal encounter, his knuckles aching from the blows he’d delivered. The guilt lingered, but it was different now. It wasn’t the overwhelming weight that had crushed him before—it was a low hum, something easier to ignore.

But the doubt, that was new. And it was growing.

Peter landed on a rooftop and crouched, staring down at the streets below. The lights of New York flickered, illuminating the city in a golden glow, but it felt distant. Everything felt distant.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, watching the world move without him, before his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and glanced at the screen.

Unknown number.

His brow furrowed. He usually ignored random calls, but something told him to pick this one up. With a sigh, he tapped the screen and brought the phone to his ear.

"Yeah?" His voice was rougher than he intended.

There was a long pause, and then a voice, cold and calculated, spoke on the other end.

"Spider-Man."

Peter’s stomach dropped. The voice was familiar, chillingly so. It was the Reaper.

"I see you've been slipping," the Reaper continued, his tone laced with mockery. "That little display with the thugs... wasn’t quite like the hero we all know, was it?"

Peter’s grip tightened on the phone, his anger bubbling to the surface. "What do you want?" he growled.

"Isn’t it obvious?" the Reaper replied, a dark chuckle echoing through the line. "I want to show the world who you really are. You think you’re a hero, but deep down, you’re just like me. That little show of brutality tonight? That’s the real Spider-Man. You’re just too scared to admit it."

Peter’s mind raced. The Reaper had been watching him. He was always watching.

"You're wrong," Peter spat, but even as the words left his mouth, he wasn’t sure he believed them.

"Am I?" the Reaper taunted. "You’ve been losing your grip for weeks. You’re slipping, Parker. And soon, everyone will see it."

Peter’s heart pounded in his chest. He wanted to scream, to lash out, but he knew that would only play into the Reaper’s hands. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself.

"Who are you?" Peter demanded. "Why are you doing this?"

The Reaper’s voice grew cold, venomous. "I’ve told you before, haven’t I? You saved me once, Spider-Man. But in doing so, you ruined everything. You cost me my life, my future. And now, I’m going to return the favor by taking yours."

Peter’s blood ran cold. The cryptic words gnawed at him. He had saved so many people over the years. Who was this? Who had he failed so catastrophically that they’d come back to destroy him?

Before Peter could respond, the line went dead. He lowered the phone, his mind reeling. The Reaper’s words echoed in his head, seeping into every corner of his thoughts.

You’re just like me.

The thought made Peter sick to his stomach. No. He wasn’t like the Reaper. He couldn’t be.

But as he stood on the rooftop, looking down at the city he’d sworn to protect, he couldn’t help but wonder if, little by little, he was becoming exactly what the Reaper wanted him to be.

The next morning, Peter found himself walking into the Daily Bugle again, his head still spinning from the Reaper’s call. He hadn’t slept. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the blood on his hands, the terror in the couple’s eyes, and the Reaper’s mocking words.

Inside the Bugle, the usual chaos greeted him—reporters shouting, phones ringing, keyboards clacking. But today, the noise grated on him more than usual.

As Peter made his way through the newsroom, he caught a glimpse of the headlines on the front page: "REAPER STRIKES AGAIN—WHERE IS SPIDER-MAN?"

Peter clenched his jaw. It was always the same. The city wanted Spider-Man to save them, but the moment things went wrong, they were the first to turn on him.

He reached Jameson’s office and knocked once before stepping inside. Jameson was, as usual, seated behind his desk, barking orders at anyone who would listen.

"Parker!" Jameson growled as soon as he saw him. "Tell me you’ve got something good today. This Reaper business is selling papers, but we need more! I want pictures of that scythe symbol plastered all over the city—let people know this freak is running rampant, and Spider-Man’s doing nothing to stop him!"

Peter felt a surge of anger but forced it down. He placed the latest photos he’d taken on Jameson’s desk without a word.

Jameson flipped through them, his expression hard to read. "Good work, Parker. But I need something splashier next time. We’re talking front-page material. Got it?"

Peter nodded, barely registering the words. His mind was elsewhere—on the Reaper, on the bodies piling up, on the brutal fight from last night. And on the growing suspicion that maybe Jameson was hiding more than just his disdain for Spider-Man.

"Yeah, sure," Peter muttered, turning to leave. As he walked out, he caught a glimpse of Jameson watching him, a strange look in his eyes. For a moment, Peter’s suspicions flared again. Could it really be Jameson? Was the man he’d known for years secretly orchestrating this chaos?

He pushed the thought aside, but it lingered, gnawing at the edges of his mind.

As Peter stepped out of the Bugle and into the busy streets of New York, the city seemed darker than usual. The shadows loomed larger, and the weight of his doubts pressed down on him.

The Reaper was out there, watching. Waiting.

And Peter was running out of time.