Sensing his body plunging downward, Peter hurriedly reached out with his other hand.
Fortunately, the web-shooter on his left wrist was still working…
but out of habit, he had aimed for an anchor point on his right side.
Trying to cross his left arm over to hit that same spot was completely awkward and impractical mid-fall.
In his panic, he had no choice but to hastily search for a suitable anchor on his left.
Free fall happens fast.
Even with Peter’s sharp reflexes, there was zero time to overthink it—he just fired at the first viable surface he saw.
*Thwip!* Feeling the solid tug of the web line holding firm, Peter let out a sigh of relief.
“Great, now that’s more like it—aaaaah!
Not ‘like it’ enough to fix the angle!” Because of the off-center angle, Peter’s momentum swung him on a crash course straight toward a parked car below.
At the critical second, he grabbed the web line with both hands and bent hard at the waist, folding his lower body nearly flat against his torso.
*Swoosh—* A draft of cool air swept past his rear.
He could faintly feel his butt scraping right across the metal roof of the car.
But now wasn’t the time to worry about his rear end.
“Watch out, watch out!
Spider-Man express coming through!” Peter yelled out, making light of a bad situation.
“Whoa-oa!” The arc of the swing finally reached its peak.
Peter slammed straight into the ledge of a third-floor residential balcony, bounced off, tumbled down onto the second-floor fire escape, and finally flipped over the railing to crash flat onto the ground below.
“Ow!
My back!” Peter lay on the pavement with a groan.
The degree of fusion between this body and its spider DNA didn’t seem to have peaked yet; its physical durability was a bit lacking compared to his own.
That impact had likely damaged his spine, leaving his body temporarily paralyzed and completely drained of strength.
“Sorry, man.
This one really isn’t on me.
Who knew the web-shooters you built would drop the ball at the worst possible moment?” Peter muttered under his breath, offering a silent apology to the secondary consciousness sharing his body.
In truth, even though this was his second time transmigrating, he still wasn’t entirely clear on what his current state was.
Was he borrowing another Spider-Man’s body?
Or was he temporarily merging with them?
Well, either way, apologizing first was definitely the right move.
Right on cue, several shadowy figures strode quickly toward Peter as he lay stranded on the ground.
As they walked, they pulled white hockey masks over their faces and brandished weapons—metal pipes, iron rods, and lead pipes.
The leader called out over his shoulder, “Someone go call the boss!
Tell him we got that masked clown!” His Spider-Sense jolted Peter awake.
He managed to lift his head, his night vision cutting through the dark to register the gang’s attire.
“Who…
are you guys?” The leader stepped right up beside Peter, staring down at him with a cold sneer.
“Let me guess—you must be that little spider punk who’s been causing trouble all over the neighborhood lately, huh?
Doesn’t look so super now, does he?” “Ha!
So wearing face masks is the hot new trend lately?” Peter grumbled, assessing his body’s condition.
The severe damage from the crash was repairing itself at a rapid pace.
If anything, the intense physical trauma had triggered the body’s hidden potential, accelerating the genetic fusion process.
How much time did he need?
About a minute?
No, give me thirty seconds!
Peter calculated internally.
“Beat him up!” The gang had no intention of giving him room to breathe.
Surrounding Peter, all four men unleashed a barrage of heavy kicks and punches—a classic case of the tiger humiliated by stray dogs.
‘At least these guys aren’t trying to pull off my mask,’ Peter thought, finding a sliver of dark humor in the beating.
As for their punches and kicks?
Sure, it hurt a bit, but only a bit.
The damage they were dealing wasn’t even keeping pace with his body’s innate healing factor.
Still, letting them turn him into a punching bag wasn’t a long-term solution.
If his body’s total healing capacity was rated at 1.0, channeling that full 1.0 into repairing his spine would fix him up in under a minute—giving him back control in thirty seconds flat.
Right now, however, taking external blows was siphoning off at least 0.3 of his recovery power to fix superficial bruises.
With only 0.7 directed to his spine, full recovery was going to take longer.
And there was no telling if these thugs would start getting even nastier.
‘If only something could distract them for a second so I can focus my healing,’ Peter thought.
“Ow!
Is that…
ow…
all you guys…
ow…
got?
Ow…” Peter tried using verbal taunts to buy time.
“I heard this guy talks a lot of trash,” the leader noted, pausing mid-kick.
“Why don’t we toss him in the garbage pile over there?
Fits right in with the rest of the trash!” another thug suggested with a sadistic grin.
“Great idea!
Give me a hand here.
One, two, three!” *Thud!* The three men lifted Peter’s body and hurled him directly onto a stack of black garbage bags piled against the wall in the corner of the alley.
“Oh, damn.
Feels just like home,” Peter chuckled weakly.
“What’s so funny, kid?” The thugs stepped up again, preparing to keep roughing him up.
Peter offered a cheerful grin beneath his mask.
“Nothing much—just this!” Lifting his left arm, he shot a web line straight up.
His body hitched upward along the wall, and relying on his wall-crawling ability, he anchored himself firmly against the brickwork, out of reach.
“Wall-crawling bug!
You think sticking up there keeps you safe from us?” the leader growled coldly.
“No, no, I’d never doubt your impressive capabilities, gentlemen,” Peter said smoothly.
“Though I do have one quick question.
Mind answering it for me?” The thugs stared up at him with cold hostility, clearly trying to figure out how to drag him back down.
Peter carried on blithely, “What’s with the dress code?
Are you guys auditioning for Friday the 13th?
Don’t you think that look is a little outdated?” Along with *A Nightmare on Elm Street*, *Halloween*, and *The Texas Chain Saw Massacre*, Jason Voorhees from *Friday the 13th* was part of the big four classic slasher icons in American cinema—famous for wearing a white hockey goaltender mask while hacking up teenagers with a machete.
The outfit these thugs were wearing was virtually identical to Jason’s signature look.
Except that movie came out way back in 1980—ancient history by modern standards.
“Shut your damn mouth, kid!” the leader snapped in fury.
“If you’re so tough, get your ass down here!” “Sure thing,” Peter obliged with complete compliance, dropping straight back down to the pavement.
“Wait—you actually came down?” The leader blinked, caught off guard by how easily the kid obeyed.
Peter shrugged his shoulders casually.
“Can’t help it.
I’ve got one great quality: I listen to good advice.
Unlike you guys…” Before the word fully left his mouth, his figure blurred into motion.
*BANG!
BANG!
BANG!
BANG!* A rapid succession of crisp impacts echoed through the alley as four heavy bodies hit the deck in unison.
“…I told you that look was outdated, but you just wouldn’t listen.
See?
That’s what you get.” With a few quick flexes of his left wrist, Peter sprayed continuous streams of webbing, binding the thugs individually before bundling them all together in one giant webbed ball.
“There!
Now that’s much more fashionable.
Looks like a bunch of hogtied pigs—a timeless classic in any era.”