Peter Parker was completely oblivious to the fact that Adrian Toomes had just been humiliated out of the Oscorp lobby by Norman Osborn. He was equally unaware that Sergei Kravinoff, Russia's most lethal export, had just touched down at JFK International.
As far as Peter was concerned, it was just a pleasantly crisp October night in New York. A leisurely, easy Tuesday. Or, at least, as leisurely as things got when you were dangling upside down from the ceiling of a heavily guarded museum at ten-thirty on a school night.
"Alright, let's run it from the top," Harry's voice crackled softly in Peter's earpiece. The audio feed was crystal clear, a massive upgrade from Peter's old scavenged comms. "Based on the old NYPD files regarding Wilson Fisk's arrest, his financial flows, and the Avengers' server data, we're fairly certain this 'philanthropic' natural history museum is a front."
This was the newly minted Spider-Team's first official joint operation since inaugurating The Web. Harry and Amadeus were back at the base running overwatch, while Peter played the man on the ground. Or the ceiling, as it were.
"A front for what?" Peter whispered, his fingertips adhering silently to the cool, ornate plaster above the museum's main concourse. His black symbiote suit rippled, blending flawlessly into the shadows. "Because right now, I'm just looking at a lot of really dusty pottery."
"A transit point and laundering center for illegal wildlife smuggling," Amadeus chimed in, the rapid clacking of his keyboard echoing over the comms. "Fisk used this place to package freshly poached ivory, rhino horns, and exotic pelts as centuries-old 'lost artifacts.' He'd forge the provenance papers, appraise them as priceless art, and sell them to private buyers to wash his dirty money."
With Kingpin currently sitting in a federal holding cell, the massive Fisk criminal empire was undergoing a messy strategic contraction. Countless shell companies and illegal businesses that were previously untouchable were suddenly exposed, scrambling to hide their paper trails. The NYPD didn't have the manpower or the warrants to raid Fisk's seemingly legitimate properties in time.
That was where Spider-Man came in.
"Copy that," Peter breathed, shifting his weight. "Objective: find the actual ledgers proving these artifacts are luxury contraband. No smashing display cases unless absolutely necessary."
The Fisk Tower itself was practically abandoned, currently locked down by a federal protective order due to Fisk's highly publicized 'surrender' and ongoing plea deals. But this museum in the Upper East Side was still operating quietly in the dark.
Peter kept to the ceiling. His stealth mode bent the light around him, rendering him invisible to the naked eye, but invisibility didn't muffle sound. He placed his hands and feet with agonizing precision, avoiding the squeaking air vents and structural beams.
"Okay, according to the architectural blueprints submitted to the city," Harry guided, "you need to head toward the curator's office in the east wing. Take the central hallway and—"
Peter froze. The microscopic hairs on his arms stood on end. "Hold on. I've got voices. There are people inside."
"What?" Harry sounded genuinely startled. "The museum closed at six. Who's in there at this hour? A dark web buyer?"
"Let's find out," Peter whispered.
He crawled silently across the ceiling, anchoring himself directly above the main exhibit hall. Below him, the soft glow of a display case illuminated two figures.
The first was a nervous-looking museum guide, clutching a clipboard to his chest. The second was a tall, incredibly broad-shouldered man in a tailored, dark olive suit. Peter expected him to be a stereotypical mob enforcer, but the man carried himself with a terrifying, relaxed grace. He had a thick beard and sharp, predatory eyes that seemed to constantly scan the periphery of the room.
"Is this a West African craft?" the bearded man asked. He had Slavic features, but his American English was flawless, devoid of even a trace of an accent.
The guide smiled weakly, nodding. "Yes, Mr. Kravinoff. This is a carved ivory tusk originating from Ghana. It depicts the great epic of Anansi, the Spider God of Stories, weaving the first tales and bringing them to humankind."
Peter's jaw tightened behind his mask. That damn spider is still haunting me, he cursed inwardly. Just hearing the name Anansi sent a phantom ache through his neck, bringing back flashes of the cosmic void and the Weaver's loom.
Pushing the memories aside, Peter triggered his mask's HUD. A soft blue light washed over his lenses as he locked onto the bearded man's face. The facial recognition software, piggybacking off Amadeus's data mining, processed the image in seconds.
"Uh, guys?" Harry's voice pitched up an octave in the earpiece. "You are not going to believe this. That man is Sergei Kravinoff. He's a prominent member of the Russian State Duma. A massive political big shot. Grew up in New York, moved back to Russia when he was eighteen. He's thirty-nine now."
Sergei Kravinoff, famously known as Kraven the Hunter, is one of Spider-Man's most complex and enduring adversaries. Unlike many villains driven by greed, Kraven is motivated by a strict code of honor and an obsession with proving himself the world's ultimate apex predator.
But since his universe have so many amalgamations of events, Peter don't know what kind of man will Kraven be or will he look Pietro in this universe.
"Wait, there's more," Amadeus interrupted, reading off a newly decrypted file. "He's also the premier member of several elite, underground hunting clubs. The guy is essentially billed as the greatest tracker of the 21st century. He takes solo expeditions into the African continent to hunt apex predators with his bare hands. He's got half a dozen international animal protection NGOs trying to sue him, but his diplomatic immunity makes him untouchable."
"Hey, Peter," Harry said, the realization dawning in his voice. "We might have just stumbled onto Fisk's supply chain. A master hunter who frequently travels to West Africa, standing in a museum full of illegally smuggled animal artifacts..."
"Yeah," Peter muttered, his eyes locked on Kraven. "I'm looking at the poacher. But we don't have proof. Just being a creep in a museum isn't a crime."
"Then why doesn't Kingpin just use local mercenaries for the smuggling?" Amadeus asked, his analytical brain churning.
"Because Fisk is a snob," Peter replied flatly. "He only buys the highest quality. If Kravinoff is the supplier, Fisk is the buyer."
Down below, Kravinoff turned away from the Anansi carving and began questioning the guide about a massive, intricately carved rhinoceros horn. Peter decided he had seen enough. Now was not the time to pick a fight with a Russian diplomat who hunted lions for sport. He was here for the paper trail.
Peter moved silently, slipping toward the edge of the ceiling and pulling off the grate to a heavy ventilation duct.
Down in the exhibit hall, Sergei Kravinoff suddenly stopped speaking. He tilted his head slightly, his sharp eyes darting toward the shadows near the ceiling. His nostrils flared.
The guide blinked, confused by the sudden silence. "Mr. Kravinoff? Is something wrong?"
Kraven stared at the ceiling for a long, heavy moment. A slow, terrifying smile crept onto his face. "Oh. It is nothing. Just a draft. You may continue."
Inside the vent, Peter let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. He crawled swiftly through the galvanized steel ductwork, following Harry's directions until he dropped silently into the curator's private office.
"How's the perimeter?" Peter asked, stretching his shoulders.
"Clear," Amadeus reported. "I've spliced their internal security feeds. Kravinoff and the guide are still in the west wing. No other staff nearby. Do you see the safe?"
Peter scanned the room. The office was lavish—mahogany desk, leather sofas, Persian rugs. But there was no safe. No file cabinets. "Negative. I think there's a hidden room. My thermal lenses are picking up a void space behind the north wall, but there's no visible doorway, and it doesn't connect to the HVAC system."
"Can you punch through the drywall?" Harry suggested.
"I could," Peter whispered, running his gloved hands along the seamless wood paneling of the wall. "But tearing down the building kind of defeats the purpose of a stealth infiltration. Give me a second."
He stepped back, analyzing the layout of the room. Criminals, especially white-collar ones, were creatures of habit. If Fisk's people had a hidden ledger room, they wouldn't use a complicated electronic keypad that could be hacked or traced by a power surge. They would use something entirely analog. Something hidden in plain sight.
Peter's eyes drifted over the antique globe, the bookshelves, and finally settled on the heavy leather desk chair.
It looked slightly... off.
Usually, when someone stood up from a desk, the chair was pushed back casually or rolled slightly askew. But this heavy, wheeled chair was positioned with perfect, unnatural symmetry, locked precisely at a rigid angle against the edge of the mahogany desk. It wasn't just a chair; it was a fulcrum.
"Bingo," Peter murmured.
He walked over to the desk, grabbed the thick leather armrests, and firmly twisted the chair counter-clockwise.
A heavy, mechanical clack echoed from behind the drywall. The wood-paneled wall next to the bookshelf shuddered, then smoothly pivoted inward on hidden, silent hinges.
The secret room was barely the size of a closet, lit by a single bulb. Sitting on a small metal table in the center was a stack of thick, leather-bound transaction ledgers and a hard drive.
Peter stepped into the hidden room, a smirk hidden beneath his mask. "Man. These guys make it way too easy."