Gargan’s shriek sounded like a rusty saw scraping back and forth through the night.
The alloy armor melted by the high heat turned into scalding molten iron, trickling into his flesh through the gaps.
The pain was likely worse than being boiled in oil down in hell.
Leon looked down.
The heap at his feet could no longer be called a person, just a smoking pile of scrap metal.
The plasma fireball in his palm hummed and vibrated, its brightness reaching a peak that lit up the unfinished rooftop as bright as day.
In his mind, the Tactical Analysis interface flashed a line of cold red text:
[Target: Mac Gargan.
Status: Incapacitated.]
[Recommendation: Physical elimination.]
*Just what I was thinking.*
“Go to hell and repent.”
Leon’s voice, filtered through the flames, sounded like two red-hot rocks grinding together—deep, raspy, and completely devoid of human warmth.
He slowly raised his hand, aiming that mini-sun holding thousands of degrees of heat straight at Gargan’s exposed head.
Right before the fireball could leave his palm—
*Thwip—!*
A streak of white forcibly cut in.
Drawing upon whatever last shred of strength he had left, Peter fired a line of webbing from his half-broken right wrist, sticking firmly to Leon’s forearm.
Using momentum, he yanked Leon’s arm to the side with a sharp pull.
*BOOM!*
The fireball grazed past Gargan’s scalp, striking a junk Chevrolet parked near the edge of the rooftop.
There was no explosion.
Only a terrifying silence as matter sublimated instantly.
The entire car vanished into thin air, leaving behind nothing but a massive crater with a glassified rim on the ground, wisps of blue smoke curling up.
Gargan lost control of his bladder on the spot.
The urine was evaporated by the heat the moment it left his body, leaving a sickening stench hanging in the air.
“Enough!
Stop!”
Peter stumbled up, placing himself in front of that pile of scrap metal.
A massive hole was torn in his chest suit, revealing shocking purplish-black bruises.
He was trembling like a dry leaf in a gale, yet he stood nailed to the spot, refusing to budge.
Leon tilted his burning head.
The deep blue flames in his eye sockets flickered—the irritation of having his violent impulse interrupted.
“Out of the way.”
“He’s already lost,” Peter panted heavily, his lungs whistling like a bellows.
“Look at him…
He poses no threat anymore.
Turn him over to the police, to the law!
We can’t…”
“The law?”
Leon took a step forward.
*Sizzle—*
The rainwater beneath his feet evaporated instantly.
The scalding heat forced Peter to raise a hand to shield his face, but he didn’t step back an inch.
“You expect those doughnut-munching cops to hold a thing like this?” Leon pointed at Gargan, who was still twitching on the ground, his tone dripping with mockery.
“Or do you expect the walls of Lovecraft Asylum to stop Osborn Tech?”
He pressed closer to Peter.
The intense heat radiating from his body caused Peter’s mask to warp slightly.
“Wake up, Spidey boy.
Put him away, and in less than two months, he’ll be bailed out or break out.
When that happens, every single person he kills will be on your head.”
“We still don’t get to execute him!”
Peter yelled back, his voice shaking from pain yet ringing loud and clear.
“Once we cross that line, we’re no different from these bastards!”
“No different?”
Leon let out a cold laugh.
The lava patterns across his body flared brightly, the horrifying heat radiation warping the surrounding air as if the very space were about to burn through.
He snapped right up to Peter’s face.
The burning face was mere inches from Peter’s mask—so close that Peter could feel his eyebrows singing.
“The difference is that if I kill him, I can sleep peacefully tonight without worrying about coming home one day to find my family as corpses!”
The words hit Peter like a sledgehammer.
*Uncle Ben…
Aunt May…*
Peter’s pupils shrank dramatically.
Fear wrapped around his heart like a venomous snake.
Yet he gritted his teeth, holding onto Leon’s arm with a death grip, even as the high heat scorched his gloves with a sizzling smell.
“No…
we can’t.
That’s the line.” Peter’s voice dropped, but it carried an unyielding stubbornness.
“If I have to become a monster to protect my family, I wouldn’t be able to face them either.
Justice isn’t maintained through slaughter.”
*Wail— Wail—*
Piercing police sirens tore through the night sky.
Red and blue lights flashed wildly at the end of the street—the NYPD was always right on time for the cleanup phase.
*Beep, beep, beep.*
The core of the Omnitrix began flashing red, emitting a rapid series of beeps that only Leon could hear.
Energy depleted.
If he didn’t leave now, he would transform back into a human right in front of Peter.
Leon looked at Peter’s eyes—exhausted, yet stubborn as a mule.
The killing intent in his heart was forced down.
Not because he was convinced.
Purely because he ran out of time.
“You’ll regret this.”
Leon dissipated the energy in his palm, and the suffocating atmosphere of destruction finally faded.
He stared coldly at Peter, his voice rough like scraping rocks:
“Remember, little spider.
Your mercy is poison.
One day, it will kill the person you love most.”
With that, he didn’t offer a single glance back at Scorpion on the ground.
*BOOM!*
Flames blasted out.
The concrete exploded as Leon turned into a pillar of fire shooting straight into the sky, disappearing into the pitch-black clouds in an instant.
Peter stared blankly at the receding trail of fire.
His tightly wound nerves snapped all at once.
*Thud.*
He collapsed onto his knees in the scorched water.
Did they win?
Maybe.
Yet he only felt a bone-chilling cold.
The “Heatblast’s” final words echoed in his head like a curse.
…
…
Oscorp Tower, top floor.
The massive floor-to-ceiling window offered a full view of Manhattan’s prosperity.
Norman Osborn stood before the window, gently swirling a wine glass with his fingertips.
The crimson liquid in the glass looked strikingly like thick blood.
The holographic screen was frozen on the final scene on the unfinished rooftop.
On one side was Spider-Man, possessing divine strength yet bound by his own morality.
On the other side was Heatblast, possessing a demonic mindset and decisive lethality.
“Fascinating.”
Norman took a sip of wine, his mouth twisting into an exaggerated arc, his eyes burning with fanaticism.
“A perfect control group.”
“Sir,” a voice reported through the communicator.
“Scorpion has been secured by the police.
Third-degree burns over his entire body, armor 90% destroyed.”
“Get him out.” Norman’s tone was flat, as if speaking of mundane trash recycling.
“Upgrade his equipment.
Add a heat-resistant coating this time.”
“Yes, sir.
Also…
the drones tracked the general direction where Heatblast vanished.”
Norman paused, setting down his wine glass.
His dark, scheming face was reflected in the glass pane.
“Speak.”
“The signal finally vanished over Forest Hills, Queens.”
Norman narrowed his eyes.
Forest Hills.
If he remembered correctly, the nerd who was always interning at the company, Peter Parker, lived right there.
“How interesting.”
Norman turned around, looking out at the brightly lit city shrouded in darkness, a green glint flashing across the depths of his eyes.
“It seems I’ll have to find time to pay a visit to this…
Mr.
Parker.”
…
Forest Hills, Parker residence.
Two in the morning.
Peter climbed through the second-floor window like a thief.
The moment he landed, the tearing agony in his back almost made him scream out loud.
Gritting his teeth, he used the moonlight to stuff his battered suit under the bed and pulled on a loose T-shirt.
“Hss…”
The wound was on his back; he couldn’t reach it at all.
Just then, the door handle turned.
*Click.*
Peter’s heart nearly stopped.
He dove onto the bed in a flash, pulling the blanket over himself.
“Peter?”
The door opened.
Leon stood at the doorway in his pajamas, holding a white first-aid kit in his hand.
Peter sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, forcing a smile that looked worse than crying.
“Ah…
Leon.
I remembered I had an unfinished project for tomorrow…
Why are you still awake this late?”
Leon didn’t say a word.
He stepped into the room, closed the door behind him, and locked it.
By the faint light filtering from the hallway, he stared at the large patch of blood soaking through the back of Peter’s T-shirt.
Keep acting.
Go on, keep acting.
Weren’t you grandstanding on the rooftop just now, preaching your big philosophy to me?
“Take your shirt off.”
“Huh?” Peter subconsciously clutched his collar.
“No…
no need, I really was just…”
“If Mom sees that hole in your back and the blood all over the bed, she’ll die of a heart attack first, then come back to kill you.”
Leon set the medical kit heavily onto the desk, pulling out alcohol and tweezers.
His tone was calm, yet carried an undeniable authority.
Peter deflated instantly.
In front of his younger brother, he always felt completely transparent.
He slowly peeled off his T-shirt, exposing his back.
It was a gash left by the graze of the scorpion tail—the flesh was torn open, the surrounding area bruised purple from the residual toxin.
Even though his spider-physique had metabolized most of the poison, it still looked terrifying.
Leon’s eyes darkened.
*I went too light on him earlier.*
*I should have ripped off the Scorpion’s other leg too.*
“Endure it.”
Leon picked up an alcohol cotton ball with the tweezers and pressed it directly onto the wound without any gentle buffer.
“Ngh—!!”
Before Peter could even scream, a towel was stuffed into his mouth.
“Shh.”
Leon shot him a cold glance.
“You want to wake Dad up?
Or do you want Mom to turn you into Peter stew?”
Peter bit down hard on the towel, the veins on his forehead bulging from the pain as his body twitched on the bed like a fish out of water.
Leon worked fast.
Cleaning the wound, applying medicine, stitching, and bandaging.
His movements were precise and cold—not like a high school student at all, but like an underground doctor accustomed to treating gunshot wounds.
Ten minutes later.
Leon packed up the bloody cotton balls and snapped the kit shut.
“Wrestling club again?” he asked nonchalantly.
Peter spat out the towel, lying limply on the pillow, completely drained.
“Yeah…
the opponent was a big guy.
Pretty tough.”
“I can tell.”
Leon stood up, looking down at his battle-scarred brother.
“Next time, run if you can’t win.
If you croak, I’m not reading your eulogy.”
Peter buried his face in the pillow, his voice muffled: “Got it…
Thanks, Leon.”
Leon turned off the desk lamp.
The room fell into darkness.
“Good night, bro.”
He walked out and shut the door.
Standing in the pitch-black hallway, Leon looked down at his unblemished hands, his eyes gradually becoming sharp and ice-cold.
Gargan was just the beginning.
Since Peter couldn’t bring himself to do it, then I’ll play the villain.
Norman Osborn…
We’ll settle this account step by step.
Leon stroked the cool Omnitrix on his wrist, turned, and went back to his room.
Forest Hills was quiet tonight.
But this was likely just the final calm before the storm.