Fisk's spire, its glass walls a fragile shield against New York's decay. Inside, the penthouse hummed with tension, the air thick with the weight of secrets. Peter Parker, Mad Spider, paced, his blood-red costume frayed, the jagged black spider emblem a scar. His spider-powers—strength, agility, regeneration—kept him moving, but the electroshock torture's pain clawed his nerves, fueling his Joker-like madness. He laughed, a raw cackle, his green eyes glinting with chaos. "This place feels like a cage, Gwenny," he quipped, Deadpool-sharp humor masking a restless ache. "Ready to break some Viper toys?"
Gwen Stacy sat at a console, her blonde hair tied back, her cracked tablet synced to the spire's servers, its holo-display flickering with Viper signals. Her blue eyes, sharp but heavy, traced the data—Scorpion's hideouts in the slums. "They're arming fast," she said, her voice steady but laced with worry, not just for the fight but for Peter. His violence was growing, each raid darker, his laughter wilder. She loved him fiercely, but fear gnawed—would his madness swallow him? "We hit their warehouse tonight," she said, her hand brushing his. "Stay sharp, Peter."
Wilson Fisk limped in, his cane tapping, scars crisscrossing his face, his suit dark against the neon glow. His leg ached, shrapnel's legacy, but his eyes carried deeper wounds. "You're ready," he rumbled, his voice gravelly, warm yet heavy. "Scorpion's pushing. We push back." Peter's grin sharpened, but Gwen's gaze lingered on Fisk, sensing his unspoken pain. Flashback: At 10, young Wilson huddled in a Brooklyn tenement, his father's belt cracking across his back, his mother's sobs muffled. "You're nothing!" his father roared, poverty's stench choking them. Wilson's fists clenched, shame burning—shame that forged a king.
The raid was swift, brutal. Peter swung through the slums, webs snapping, crashing into a Viper warehouse. His violence was a storm—webs binding mercs, punches cracking ribs, laughter chilling. "Bad day, snakes!" he taunted, dodging plasma bolts, his pain a fuel. Gwen hacked the warehouse's turrets, turning them on the Vipers, her EMPs frying their cyber-tanks. Her heart raced, watching Peter's ferocity, his bloodlust a shadow she couldn't reach. "Ease up, Peter!" she shouted, her voice breaking. He laughed, raw, but softened, webbing a merc gently. "For you, Gwenny."
Back at the spire, Fisk shared more, his voice low. "I stole my first coin at 12," he said, eyes distant. "Food for my mother. Poverty breaks you early." Peter's laughter faded, his own hunger at 15—stealing bread for Aunt May—echoing Fisk's shame. "We're not so different, big guy," he said, his voice raw, loyalty to Fisk deepening, a brother found in scars. Gwen's worry grew, her hand gripping Peter's, fear for his soul a quiet ache.