Chapter 22: "Monsters in the Smoke"
In which Spider-Man sees hell, and still chooses to fight.
The Parker household was a sanctuary of peace and cozy warmth. At least, it had been—until Peter's police radio crackled to life with all the subtlety of a cymbal-wielding gorilla in a china shop.
"Attention all units! We have a 10-99! The 25th Precinct is under attack! Armed assailants—repeat—armed gang members attempting a breakout! Immediate backup required!"
Peter's eyes flew open.
He didn't bolt upright dramatically—he sat up with the quiet, world-weary sigh of a man who just knew New York couldn't survive five minutes without him.
"…Of course," he muttered, rubbing his face. "I sleep for one hour and suddenly the city thinks it's Gotham."
Beside him, Jess groaned into the pillow. "Seriously? Already? We were peaceful for forty-seven minutes."
Peter gave a lazy stretch, bones cracking like a bag of microwave popcorn. "I feel great, though. Chakra-enhanced nap. Shout-out to Naruto."
Jess cracked one bleary eye open. "You're not allowed to shout anyone out until you've had breakfast."
He leaned over, kissing her forehead through a slightly crooked mask. "Rain check. Chaos calls."
She grumbled something that may have included the word "divorce," then pulled the blanket over her head.
Peter zipped up his suit, flipped the window open with one smooth motion, and stood perched on the sill like the world's sassiest gargoyle.
"You really going?" Jess asked, her voice muffled under the comforter.
"What kind of hero would I be if I didn't?" Peter replied, adjusting his web-shooters.
"A sane one," she muttered.
Peter smirked. "Too late for that."
As he stepped out onto the windowsill, the wind ruffling his suit, Jess gave one final sleepy warning.
"No helicopters this time, webhead."
Peter's voice was already fading into the wind.
"No promises!"
And with that, he was gone—vaulting off the window, spinning mid-air, and slinging a web across the skyline like a black-and-white comet blazing over Queens.
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In the dead of night, the Harlem Police Station was unusually quiet. Most of the officers were finishing their reports or taking a break, unaware that the night was about to be painted red.
Outside, a lone figure walked toward the entrance—a mountain of muscle, clad in black, his pale, almost ghostly skin gleaming under the dim streetlights. Lonnie Lincoln, better known as Tombstone, was on a mission.
He was born and raised in Harlem, but life had never been kind to him. His albinism made him a target in his crime-infested neighborhood, but instead of breaking under pressure, he hardened into something twisted and unbreakable. He had bullied his only friend, a warped form of companionship that mirrored his lack of empathy.
Expelled from high school, he had turned to street fighting. His inhuman durability made him a legend in underground rings, and soon, he was working for local gangs. But Tombstone was never content to be a mere thug. He had clawed his way up, taking over gangs, eliminating rivals, and establishing himself as one of the most feared crime lords in New York.
His reign had nearly ended many times, captured by the police, betrayed by allies, but each time, he returned. And each time, everyone involved in his capture ended up dead. One escape changed him forever—dunked into experimental chemicals, his body mutated, turning his skin rock-hard and his strength inhuman.
He had grown his empire, only to be swallowed by a bigger predator—Wilson Fisk, the Kingpin. But Tombstone didn't mind. He respected Fisk's power, ruthlessness, and intelligence. Unlike his previous bosses, the Kingpin was worthy of his loyalty. That didn't mean he wouldn't seize control if given the chance, but for now, he played his role well.
Outside of crime, Tombstone had a daughter—the only thing in his life he cared about. She had been raised in luxury, with every problem solved through bribes, threats, or violence. Though he had tried to keep her from crime, his twisted sense of pride had encouraged her darker tendencies. When she got in trouble, he handled it—when her caretakers failed to keep her straight, he killed them.
Now, Tombstone ruled Harlem with an iron grip. Only one gang dared to challenge him—the Goblin Gang. But even that conflict was something he relished.
Tonight, however, was about business.
Kingpin had sent him to retrieve a special asset—a mutant called The Persuader.
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Roland Rayburn, better known as The Persuader, was a Wall Street trader before he realized he had an ability that made him irresistibly persuasive. With a few words, he could convince people to do what he wanted, at least for a short time. He had scammed his way to millions, manipulating clients, brokers, and bankers.
But greed breeds carelessness.
One wrong deal put him on Kingpin's radar. Fisk had given him a choice—serve or disappear. Rayburn had wisely chosen to serve.
For years, Kingpin used him like a hidden blade, manipulating people, influencing legal cases, and running financial scams. His abilities weren't powerful enough to control strong minds for long, but for the weak? He could make them turn against their own families, sign away fortunes, or even kill themselves.
Recently, he had been caught by Daredevil while trying to push a lawyer into committing suicide. Now, drugged and shackled, he awaited transfer to a special superhuman containment facility.
Kingpin couldn't allow that.
That's where Tombstone came in.
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Tombstone didn't walk out of the Harlem precinct.
He owned it.
Every step echoed with menace as he strode through the ruined lobby, boot soles crunching over broken glass, bullet casings, and blood-soaked tile. The machine gun in his hands—more rail cannon than firearm—was still smoking, the air around it humming with heat and the faint scent of ozone.
The building groaned around him like it was in mourning. The walls were perforated. The ceiling had holes you could fit vending machines through. Someone's desk chair was embedded halfway into a concrete column.
And Tombstone?
He was grinning.
"I love the smell of smoke and the screams of despair in the night," he growled, voice like gravel dipped in motor oil. Then he chuckled—low, guttural, and so damn happy you'd think it was Christmas morning and blood was tinsel.
He didn't do this for chaos.
He did it for clarity.
There was something poetic about erasing resistance. Something pure about reminding people that fear still ruled the world—that fists and bullets beat law books and courtrooms every time.
And Tombstone brought both.
The elite task force had arrived five minutes into the attack.
They had armor.
They had high-tech rifles.
Some of them even had glowing veins from bootleg super-serum.
And they still dropped like paper dolls.
Tombstone's heat gauntlets had turned one man's chest plate into slag. He'd grabbed another by the head and crushed the helmet like a soda can. The plasma rifles stung, sure—but that was all. Sting and smoke. Tombstone just laughed through it.
They were trying to stop a tank with peashooters.
Inside the evidence room, low-level thugs were treating the place like a Black Friday sale at a villain convention.
"Yo! I found King Cobra's old brass knuckles!"
"Dude, there's vibranium in this drawer!"
"Somebody find me Electro's batteries—these tasers suck!"
Meanwhile, Tombstone marched toward the holding cells like he was heading to pick up dry cleaning.
He stopped in front of Cell 7.
The reinforced door had already been half-blasted open by one of his boys.
Inside, Roland Rayburn blinked slowly, like a man waking from the worst nap of his life. He looked up, dazed, seeing only a pale-skinned mountain of muscle framed by smoke and fire.
"...Tombstone?" he croaked.
Tombstone didn't answer. Just reached in, grabbed the mutant by the collar, and hoisted him up like a misbehaving child.
"You're lucky Fisk still thinks you're useful," he muttered.
Rayburn swallowed, hard. "And you think I'm…?"
"A chore. Now shut up and hang tight."
He slung The Persuader over his shoulder like a gym bag and turned back toward the exit.
By now, the cops had locked themselves in the steel-reinforced panic bunker—a glorified vault buried beneath the station. Tombstone could hear their panic over the intercoms. Breathless voices. Barked orders. Prayers.
He considered knocking on the door.
Leaving a message.
Instead, he raised one fist, seared glowing red with heat—and punched the wall beside the vault.
The entire foundation shook.
"Tell your bosses," he rumbled, voice low but deafening. "The Kingpin doesn't like his toys locked away."
Then he left.
Outside, the night air was crisp. Quiet. Eerily so.
Except for the convoy of death parked at the curb.
Three matte-black SUVs waited like growling wolves, engines purring. Their armor had been tested in war zones. Their windows were mirrored, bulletproof, bombproof, truth-proof.
The doors opened as Tombstone approached.
One of his lieutenants—skinny, twitchy, with way too many piercings—waved him in.
"Boss, that was some show. You made the Punisher look like a water balloon."
Tombstone didn't smile this time.
He threw Rayburn into the backseat, slammed the door, and turned to his crew.
"No mistakes," he growled. "We're not ghosts yet. Keep your eyes up."
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Peter Parker had seen bad nights.
But this?
This was carnage.
He crouched silently on the ledge of a nearby rooftop, the world burning below him. Harlem's 25th Precinct was a war zone—no, not a war zone. Even war zones had rules.
This was slaughter.
Walls that once held up a city's safety were now swiss cheese, gouged by railgun fire. The front gate looked like it had been kissed by a tank. Flames licked out from inside the station, casting flickering shadows over the crimson-streaked pavement.
And the bodies…
Peter's chest tightened. Cops, agents, bystanders—some collapsed where they stood, others buried under rubble, limbs twisted in impossible angles. One man… he wasn't sure if it was a man anymore. Just red.
His breath hitched.
He'd trained for danger. Been mentored by demons, and occasionally, a very stern Naruto who could throw planets if he really felt like it. But all that training hadn't prepared him for the sheer, brutal reality of this.
It wasn't just a crime scene.
It was a message.
Then he saw the sender.
Tombstone.
The man looked like a walking horror film poster—hulking, grinning, skin as pale as a bleached skull and eyes glittering with feral glee. The railgun in his hands hissed, still venting heat, glowing faintly in the darkness like a dying star.
He was laughing. Laughing at the chaos. At the bodies. At this.
Peter's hands curled into fists, claws of rage digging into his palms.
"Peter."
A voice cut through the tension like a knife wrapped in silk.
He turned.
A flash of violet.
Jessica Jones—hood up, eyes hard—landed beside him with a low thud, the cracked rooftop tiles splintering under her boots.
"You shouldn't be here," he said, trying to keep the snarl out of his voice.
Jess just arched an eyebrow. "And you should?"
"I don't want you getting hurt."
"And I don't want you playing martyr," she shot back. "Guess we're both out of luck."
Peter took a sharp breath. He didn't want to argue. Not now. Not with this much death below them. "How'd you find me?"
Jess shrugged. "Didn't need to. I followed the screaming."
Despite everything, Peter let out a short laugh. The kind of laugh that didn't reach your eyes but kept your sanity from crumbling.
Jess glanced down at the ruins, her mouth tightening. "This is bad."
Peter nodded. "This is worse than bad."
The two of them stood in silence for a beat. Somewhere below, a dying police radio crackled static.
Jess's jaw clenched. "I'll get the survivors. Anyone still breathing is probably hiding in the reinforced vault. I'll fly them out through the roof if I have to."
Peter's voice was low. Controlled. Dangerous. "And I'll take care of them."
Jess turned to him, surprised. "Alone?"
"I'm not letting him walk away from this, Jess."
He looked at her now—really looked at her. His eyes weren't just determined. They were haunted.
"This could've been May. Or Ben. Or you."
Jess opened her mouth, then closed it. She couldn't argue that.
"Okay," she said at last. "But don't do anything stupid."
Peter managed a weak smile. "Define stupid."
"Stupid is charging a superhuman murder train with a vengeance complex and a gun that could blow up a tank."
He gestured to himself. "So, Tuesday?"
She didn't laugh this time. Just grabbed his wrist and squeezed. "Come back in one piece."
Peter nodded.
And then he jumped.
As Spider-Man plunged toward the inferno, the flames reflecting in his lenses like twin suns, one thought burned brighter than all the rest:
This wasn't just about saving the day anymore.
It was about justice.
And no monster—not even Tombstone—was going to laugh about this night ever again.