Deep in a service tunnel beneath a New York City subway station, two maintenance workers trudged through the dim, humid corridor, checking the rails and electrical panels for faults.
One of them, a short, stocky man in his early forties, had the grizzled, confident air of a veteran. The other, taller and clearly younger—barely thirty—trailed slightly behind, shining a flashlight into the shadows and listening attentively to the older man's monologue.
"Trust me, kid," the older worker said as he crouched to inspect a utility junction box, "you're gonna fall in love with this job sooner or later. I say that with over twenty years of hard-earned experience."
He tapped the box with his wrench, nodding to himself before standing up. "It may be dark and damp down here, but it's warm in winter, cool in summer. Like living in spring all year round. No bosses breathing down your neck, no cubicle gossip, no corporate drama."
"Plus, for skilled workers like us? Pay's not bad either. City benefits, too."
The younger man chuckled, nodding. "I won't lie, it already feels better than my last gig."
"Oh yeah? What did you do before this?"
"I worked in television—broadcast side. Mostly directing."
The older man blinked and looked up, genuinely surprised. "TV? No kidding. So you know how to fix those damn sets, right? Mine's been stuck showing ghost images for weeks."
The younger worker laughed awkwardly, scratching his head. "Sorry to disappoint. I didn't work on hardware—I was behind the scenes. Scheduling, programming, that kind of thing."
"Ah, a desk job. No wonder you came down here lookin' for peace." The older man straightened, grinning. "Honestly, compared to some media executive gig, this job's paradise."
"No one yells at me here, at least," the younger guy said, his voice laced with relief. "No 2 a.m. conference calls, no deadlines… it's peaceful."
Just as he finished speaking, the older man's expression twisted into horror. His flashlight clattered to the ground, beam swaying wildly.
He raised a trembling finger and pointed behind the younger man. "W-what the hell is that?"
Startled, the younger man turned—and froze.
From the darkness, a pair of blood-red eyes stared back at them. Unblinking. Predatory.
A low, guttural hiss echoed through the tunnel, followed by the sharp, wet sound of claws scraping concrete. The heavy, bestial breathing grew louder with each step as something massive began advancing.
"RUN!" the older man screamed, grabbing the younger worker by the arm and yanking him back the way they came.
They bolted through the narrow tunnel, their boots slamming against the damp floor. The subway line, as was typical of Marvel's New York, was built over an interwoven sewer grid—areas many believed to be infested with rats, derelicts… and urban myths.
They reached the access ladder from which they had descended. The older man scrambled up first, with the younger one right behind, hearts pounding. They hauled themselves out of the sewer and toward their nearby service truck, half-running, half-crawling in panic.
The younger man reached the driver's side first, shoved the key into the ignition, and twisted frantically.
The older man yanked open the passenger door—but just as he did, the adjacent manhole cover was thrown aside with unnatural force.
A massive green-scaled hand shot out and latched onto his ankle.
Claws like daggers.
"HELP ME! It's got me!" the man shrieked, clawing at the open truck door as he was dragged back.
Inside the truck, the younger man lunged across the cab and seized his coworker's wrist, pulling with every ounce of strength he had.
But the thing below had the strength of ten men.
The older man's shoe was ripped off, his other leg buckling as he was pulled harder. His terrified scream echoed off the walls as his upper body was yanked halfway into the open sewer.
The younger worker strained harder, tears forming at the edges of his eyes. "I've got you! Hold on!"
But it wasn't enough. With a sickening jerk, the older man was dragged down completely. His scream cut off abruptly.
Silence.
The younger worker slumped back in the cab, hands trembling. His chest rose and fell with shallow, panicked breaths. He stared at the open manhole where his partner had disappeared—at the damp trail of claw marks etched into the asphalt.
He had tried to save him. He'd pulled with everything he had.
But whatever had taken the man wasn't human.
Down below, deep in the old tunnels of Manhattan, a legend was breathing.
Something old. Something reptilian.
And in a hidden laboratory not far away, a tattered lab coat bearing the name Dr. Curtis Connors lay shredded across the floor, forgotten under broken vials and smashed machinery.
He quickly started the truck and sped off toward the nearest NYPD precinct, but those glowing red eyes from the sewer burned vividly in his mind, and sheer terror made his hands shaky and unstable on the wheel.
Though he intended to steer calmly toward the police station, his path veered erratically through Midtown traffic. The more fear gripped him, the more his nerves frayed, and the more his control over the vehicle deteriorated. In his mind, the monster hadn't been left behind—it was still crawling after him, inch by inch, breath by breath.
As his truck careened down 12th Avenue, horns blared and tires screeched. Several unlucky vehicles were sideswiped, and one was rear-ended so hard it spun out into a fire hydrant. Screams and curses echoed from all directions.
The young man finally remembered the brake pedal and stomped on it with all his might—but the vehicle didn't respond. The brakes had likely given out after the earlier collisions. His heart nearly exploded with panic.
"Red eyes! Red eyes! It's still chasing me!" he screamed, sweat pouring down his forehead. Every glance in the rearview mirror made it feel like the creature was right behind him, crawling on all fours through the asphalt, inches away.
As the truck burst through a line of plastic road barriers, it now surged forward along an exposed stretch near the Hudson River. The scent of seawater mingled with exhaust fumes and fear.
Suddenly, a red-and-blue blur descended from the rooftops and landed squarely on the roof of the speeding vehicle with practiced grace.
The chaos had not gone unnoticed.
Spider-Man—Peter Parker—had been nearby, swinging his patrol route. He'd seen the truck tear through several intersections. At the speed it was going, if it hadn't been slowed slightly by the impacts and fences, the vehicle might have already plunged into the river.
Spider-Man flattened himself against the roof and leaned over to peer into the cab, shouting, "Hey! Hey! Sir! You need to calm down!"
"Ease into the turn—don't aim for the water! Aim for the side barricades! Use the handbrake, not the foot brake!"
Peter's voice cut through the wind and engine roar. The young man blinked up at the masked hero, his panic ebbing just slightly—but his trembling hands refused to obey. Instead of veering toward the barricades, the truck barreled forward, straight toward the pier's edge.
"Damn it!" Peter hissed. Without a second thought, he flipped off the roof, latched one hand onto the door handle, and ripped the truck door clean off with enhanced strength. It flew backward into the street with a loud metallic clang.
The steering was gone. The brakes were gone. There was no stopping the vehicle now—it had already cleared the last barrier and was soaring off the edge of the road, suspended for a split second in open air.
Reacting fast, Peter reached inside, grabbed the panicked young man by the torso, and fired a web-line to the nearest reinforced guardrail. The truck dropped into the river below with a tremendous splash, but Spider-Man swung them away just in time, landing both of them safely back on the roadside.
"Phew~" Peter exhaled, gently setting the man down onto the pavement. "You okay? I hope your insurance covers water damage. And, uh… maybe sign up for another driving test. That was a disaster."
"Red eyes! In the sewer! I swear to God, there's a monster down there!" the man cried, curling into himself, hugging his knees as his body shook.
Peter tilted his head, his tone now more cautious. "Red eyes, huh? Maybe it was a heat signature? An instrument light? Could've been—"
"No, no, I saw it! It was alive! My partner and I got out of the sewer, but that thing… it reached up and dragged him back down!"
Peter's playful demeanor faded instantly. He rested a hand on his chin and murmured, "That… doesn't sound like a hallucination. Something with claws and red eyes in the sewers…?"
His eyes narrowed behind the mask. He knew that description. It wasn't new. Whispers of sewer monsters had circulated before, and Dr. Connors—formerly of ESU—had been at the center of them. The Lizard.
"Man," Peter muttered, rubbing his temple. "Can New York get a week of peace without a mutant reptile ruining someone's commute?"
As sirens grew louder in the distance, Peter turned back to the young man still on the ground.
"Hey, do me a favor. When the cops show up, try not to throw me under the bus. I didn't crash your ride, alright?"
With that, he shot a web-line and took off, vanishing into the skyline.
He'd been heading to his job at the Daily Bugle, but now? Late again. And probably about to write an article on a sewer monster he'd need to go fight.
Just another day in the life of Spider-Man.
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