After dropping Colleen off at home, Peter didn't duck into the first dark alley to change clothes like he normally would. Instead, he kept walking for two more blocks, heading to the spot where he had noticed a small flower stall the other day. It was a modest stand, set up between a convenience store and a 24-hour laundromat, with a slightly faded red-and-white striped awning that still held a certain charm.
Unfortunately, given the time, the place was already closing.
Peter quickened his pace, then broke into a run when he saw the fully white-haired man and woman, probably the owners, gathering the flowers on display with alarming efficiency. "Good evening!" he called from a distance, loud enough to make them stop. Peter slowed down as he approached. "I would like to buy a bouquet."
The man, a thin figure with metal-framed glasses and a dirt-stained apron, cast a sideways glance at the woman, one of those looks loaded with years of familiarity. Peter interpreted it as: "Are we still open?"
The woman, a short lady with a round face and lively eyes that contrasted with her age, shot a look back at her husband before turning to Peter with a gentle smile. "Of course, of course. You're lucky, young man. We were already closing, but for such a determined customer..." She paused, her eyes scanning his face. "We can always make a little time."
"Phew." Peter let out a relieved sigh, his shoulders relaxing. "My plan was to come earlier. But my appointment took longer than I expected, and I ended up losing track of time."
"These things happen," the woman replied, stepping closer to the remaining flowers on display. "So, tell me, what are you looking for?"
"I, uh..." Peter scratched the back of his neck, suddenly feeling very out of place in front of that variety of colors and shapes whose names he didn't even know. "I'm not really used to buying flowers, to be honest. I have no idea about the meanings behind them, or which goes with what, or all those things people who understand flowers seem to know by heart."
"Ah, that's normal, dear." The woman waved her hand, as if brushing away his concern. "Most people don't know. That's why we're here. Tell me who you want to give them to, and I'll find the perfect flower for you."
"Hm..." Peter paused for a moment to think, choosing the right words that would convey what he felt. "I want a flower that means… eternal love. Something that shows how important she is to me."
"Ooh!" the woman shot a conspiratorial glance at the man, who until then had been quiet, just observing. "So we have a romantic here, do we?" she said, her eyes gleaming with amusement.
"What?!— No, no, no—" Peter widened his eyes and hurried to deny it, raising his hands. "It's for my..." He hesitated for a second, but then his face softened into a small, genuine smile, "Mom. It's for my mom."
"Ah!" the woman placed a hand over her chest, her smile widening. "I see. Sorry for the misunderstanding, dear. I've been in this business for so long that sometimes I start assuming things." She turned to the flowers on display, her eyes scanning the options with renewed attention. "So, a flower that means your love for your mother..."
"Orchids," the voice came from the man, who hadn't said a word until then.
Peter looked at him in surprise. 'I thought he was mute...'
The man stepped forward, his hands in his apron pockets. "Orchids symbolize eternal love, beauty, strength. It's a flower that lasts longer than most. And if you take good care of it, it blooms again."
"Exactly what I was thinking!" the woman said, already walking toward the orchids. "Did you know this is one of the purest loves there is? The bond between mother and child is… unique in this world." She let out a small laugh. "I know that well. I have three children."
"They're very lucky." Peter commented, watching her assemble the bouquet. "You seem like wonderful parents."
The woman looked over her shoulder, a proud gleam in her eyes. "Oh, no. We're the lucky ones to have them. Aren't we, dear?"
"Without a doubt," the man replied, winking at her.
Peter smiled at the exchange and pulled his wallet from his backpack. "How much is it?"
***
In a room submerged in darkness, only a single light bulb hung from the ceiling, casting a small circle of yellowish light onto the floor. Within that circle, a man in a purple suit was unconscious in a metal chair, his head slumped forward, chin touching his chest. His arms were chained behind his body with a thick chain, prepared specifically so he wouldn't be able to break free.
The rest of the room was an oppressive void. There were no visible walls, no doors, nor windows — only darkness and silence.
A few minutes passed like that, in complete silence, until the man finally began to regain consciousness.
"What?..." He blinked several times, his eyes watering as they tried to adjust to the harsh light shining directly on his face. 'What happened? I don't remember...' He shook his head, trying to clear the fog clouding his thoughts — the remnants of some powerful sedative still running through his veins, leaving his tongue numb and his reflexes slow.
And that was when he felt his arms restrained.
His muscles tensed instantly. He tried to break the chains once, twice, three times — each pull more violent than the last — but all he got was the deep sound of chains clanging, echoing through the darkness. "Shit!" he growled through clenched teeth, his jaw so tight that the muscles were visible.
His eyes began to scan the space around him, trying to identify some reference point or an exit. But the light above his head was too strong — deliberately so, he realized — making it impossible to see beyond the circle itself.
"Okay... okay... okay." The man steadied his voice, keeping it firm and confident, reciting the script that years of experience had carved into his bones. "You got me. You won, Tombstone. Now show yourself and let's talk man to man. I'm sure we can reach an agreement." A small crooked smile appeared on his lips, rehearsed and calculated. "For old times' sake."
"I'm not Tombstone."
A deep voice came from right in front of him, seeming to fill the entire space.
Hammerhead felt his body stiffen. He hadn't sensed any presence nearby, and that said a lot about the level of the person in front of him. He narrowed his eyes, squeezing his eyelids against the harsh light and forcing his vision through the blinding glare. Slowly, a silhouette began to take shape: a tall, broad figure sitting a few feet away.
Whoever it was, he was huge.
"But you'd love it if it were him." The voice continued, and there was something in that tone — a terrifying calm, an absolute certainty, like that of a predator who knows the prey has nowhere to run — that made the hairs on the back of Hammerhead's neck stand on end. It had been years since he felt that. Years. Not even the Green Goblin had made him feel like that.
"I see." Hammerhead said, forcing his voice to come out controlled, keeping the tone of negotiation. "You're the new guy. The rookie who's been causing trouble for everyone."
"New guy? Rookie?" the man repeated, the words sounding like an insult in his mouth. "Funny how people forget others quickly in this city. But I understand. I've been away for a few years." He paused, and Hammerhead heard the creak of the chair — the sound of a heavy body leaning forward. "Which explains the mess things are in around here."
"What does that mean?" Hammerhead asked, confused, his mind spinning as he tried to match that voice to a familiar face. No one so far knew who this guy was, not even the best sources in the city.
"You turned my city into a real open sewer." The man's tone changed — it didn't get louder, but it became denser and heavier, filled with contempt. "Gangs fight over territory like starving animals, freaks battle in the streets as if New York were their private arena, the police run loose without a leash, and the underworld has no owner, which makes every worm think it can build its own empire now. You destroyed the order."
"And you intend to fix that?" Hammerhead asked, his voice coming out rougher than he would have liked.
"Yes. And I'm going to start by ripping out every root of rot in this city."
"You're describing a war, my friend." Hammerhead said, finding an opening. "A war you can't win alone. I... I see everything you just described as well. This city… it's lost." His eyes narrowed. "And the main one responsible has a name: Tombstone. I worked for him, followed every order like a loyal dog. But when I saw how he was running things — letting everything rot, getting comfortable in the chair while the worms took over, losing control to anyone who showed up with a bit of strength — I rebelled."
He paused before continuing. "We can help each other—"
"No, I don't think so."
The voice cut through the air like a blade, and before Hammerhead could process what was happening, the man was already in front of him.
BAM!
A fist struck Hammerhead's face with the force of a high-speed truck, throwing his head and body backward. The chair toppled, and he went with it, the cold, hard floor meeting his back. 'That's a heavy hand,' he thought, watching the man finally step out of the shadows.
He was gigantic, bald, and dressed in an impeccable white suit, the sleeves of the jacket slightly rolled up, revealing thick forearms. On his hands, brass knuckles gleamed under the light of the bulb, perfectly fitted to his knuckles. "I was told you have a hard head. Let's test that." He raised his right fist.
Hammerhead opened his mouth, trying to buy time. "Wait—"
BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!
BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!
BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!
BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!
BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!
BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!
BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! SPLASH!!
***
[The next chapter drops on Saturday. If you want to get ahead of the story and have early access to upcoming chapters, check out my Patreon.]
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Disclaimer: This story and its characters belong to Sony Pictures and Marvel Comics (Disney). This is merely a fanfiction written by a fan, with no intention of infringement.