"Let me make sure I'm fully understanding the sequence of events here," Reed Richards said, his voice entirely devoid of inflection.
The leader of the Fantastic Four was currently standing in the center of his primary laboratory. His torso remained perfectly upright, but his neck was stretched over six feet to the left, allowing his face to hover inches away from a glowing diagnostic monitor. His hands, meanwhile, were stretched ten feet in the opposite direction, rapidly typing on a separate console.
"You experienced a sudden, violent surge in aggressive impulses," Reed continued, his eyes scanning scrolling data arrays. "And during a routine combat encounter, you actively formulated a lethal, gruesome strategy to execute your opponent."
Peter paced a tight circle around a humming particle accelerator, rubbing the back of his neck. "Exactly. It wasn't just a stray thought. It was a compulsion."
Reed's neck snapped back like a rubber band, his head settling squarely on his shoulders. He turned to Peter, adjusting his lab coat. "Peter, speaking strictly as a scientist, I believe this is a psychological issue. Post-traumatic stress is common in our line of work. I highly recommend you see a licensed therapist."
From the far side of the lab, a heavy, grinding sound echoed over the hum of the servers. Ben Grimm, the Thing, was leaning against a reinforced steel bulkhead, idly crushing a titanium wrench in his rocky, orange grip.
"Doc's overthinking it, kid," Ben rumbled, scratching a non-existent itch on his craggy ear. "Somebody thinks they're a psychopath just 'cause they fantasized about murder for three seconds? Give me a break. Do you know how many working stiffs in New York daydream about shoving their boss out a window? If that makes you crazy, the whole city belongs in an asylum."
"I appreciate the blue-collar solidarity, Ben, really," Peter sighed, stopping his pacing. "But this wasn't road rage. I'm telling you, it's connected to the symbiote. You said yourself that the suit amplifies the host's natural desires. But I don't naturally desire to burst a guy's organs from the inside out."
Peter tapped the center of his chest, where the sleek black material of his suit rested against his skin. "This only started happening after Venom sealed Knull away. I heard his voice in my head. Is it possible that Knull's consciousness is bleeding into mine?"
Reed frowned. He pulled up a massive holographic projection of Venom's molecular structure. "According to my baseline scans, your symbiote hasn't undergone any significant structural mutation. From a purely scientific standpoint, consuming the Grendel dragon did not alter Venom's core matrix."
"Hey, web-head. Why the long face?"
Johnny Storm strolled through the automatic doors, a half-eaten slice of Joe's Pizza in his hand. He chewed loudly, looking between Peter's stressed posture and Reed's holographic charts.
Once Reed gave the Human Torch a highly abridged, heavily sanitized summary of Peter's homicidal ideations, Johnny just swallowed his bite of pizza and shrugged.
"Look, man," Johnny said, wiping grease off his chin. "If Reed's science toys say you're physically fine, but you've got a dark god of the abyss whispering in your ear, why are you asking a physicist? Go ask the magic guy with the cape."
Peter blinked behind his white lenses. He pointed a finger at Johnny. "That... is actually incredibly solid logic."
Twenty minutes later, Peter stood on the front steps of 177A Bleecker Street. The Sanctum Sanctorum had been practically reduced to rubble during the symbiote invasion two days ago, yet the brownstone looked completely pristine. The brass detailing gleamed in the afternoon sun. Magic was incredibly convenient for property damage.
Before Peter could even raise his knuckle to the heavy wooden door, it swung inward on perfectly silent hinges.
"Good afternoon, Spider-Man," Dr. Stephen Strange said, standing in the foyer with his hands clasped behind his back. The Cloak of Levitation twitched over his shoulders. "I assume you are not here to raid my pantry again."
"I took one box of Cheez-Its, Doc. Let it go," Peter said, stepping inside.
The air in the Sanctum smelled like ancient paper, burning sandalwood, and ozone. Peter quickly outlined the incident in the subway tunnel, holding nothing back.
Strange listened quietly. Without a word, he raised his hands. He wove a complex geometric pattern of glowing orange sparks in the air. The heavy, golden amulet resting against his chest clicked open, revealing a blinding, emerald-green light.
The green light washed over Peter. He felt a strange, cold pressure behind his eyes, like a phantom breeze blowing straight through his skull.
The amulet snapped shut. Strange lowered his hands.
"Knull's essence is in an incredibly deep state of dormancy," Strange declared, his tone dismissive. "Logically speaking, you should not be experiencing any direct psychic interference. In fact, given the containment, your mental wards are stronger now than they were last week."
"Then why did I want to turn Tombstone into a piñata?" Peter pressed.
"A minor side effect," Strange said, turning and walking toward a massive, floating bookshelf. "Before Venom completely consumed the opposing symbiotes, he likely absorbed a fragmented codex from Riot. Riot is an incredibly aggressive, unstable strain. You are experiencing a residual testosterone spike from the corrupted data. It isn't Knull. Just pay a little more attention to your emotional regulation, and you will be fine."
Peter stared at the Sorcerer Supreme's back. "That's it? 'Pay attention'? You don't have a mystic tea or a glowing rock that can flush it out?"
"Not at present," Strange replied without looking back. "I will consult the Orb of Agamotto for any latent prophecies regarding your condition. If you are truly concerned about the psychological mechanics of dark gods, I suggest you consult Thor. Though, frankly, his advice is rarely practical."
Strange wasn't wrong.
After leaving the Sanctum, Peter patched into the Avengers' secure comms channel and managed to catch the God of Thunder mid-flight over the Atlantic.
"This is the true nature of the Black Emperor!" Thor's booming voice nearly blew out Peter's earpiece speakers. "He seeks to entice the souls of warriors! He whispers to the uncontrollable desires within your heart, seeking to corrupt your valor! You must remain ever vigilant against his temptations, Man of Spiders, and strike true!"
"Right. Super helpful. Thanks, Point Break," Peter muttered, cutting the connection.
He was treating his own mental health like an RPG fetch quest, bouncing from NPC to NPC without getting any actual answers. With science, magic, and mythology exhausted, Peter had exactly one option left. He needed a telepath.
"Let me get this straight."
Logan exhaled a thick, gray plume of cigar smoke. He flicked the ash onto the pristine green lawn of Xavier's Institute for Higher Learning. The scent of cheap tobacco cut sharply through the crisp November air. "You drove all the way up to Westchester so you could ask Frost to dig around inside your brain?"
Peter hung upside down from a thick oak branch, his arms crossed defensively. "I need to know if Knull planted a backdoor in my subconscious. Ms. Frost is a world-class telepath. I figured she could take a look and give me a hint."
Logan shook his head, a low, rumbling growl of disapproval vibrating in his chest. "If it were me, kid, I wouldn't let that woman anywhere near my brain. You're gonna have to deal with this one on your own."
"But what if I lose control?" Peter asked, his voice tightening. "What if I hurt someone?"
Logan fell silent. He turned his head, watching a group of mutant freshmen awkwardly attempting a coordinated combat drill on the far side of the field.
"If you only ever act when you're one hundred percent sure nobody's gonna get hurt... you're in the wrong line of work," Logan said, his voice grating like sandpaper. "Anything can happen out here. You think you can prepare for every angle? Preparation goes out the window the second you take a punch to the jaw. You have to rely on yourself. And you have to rely on that suit you're wearing."
Logan looked up at Peter, his eyes narrowing. "Do you trust the alien?"
[WE ARE ONE,] Venom purred in the back of Peter's mind, a warm, protective weight settling over his chest.
"I do," Peter said honestly.
Logan dropped the stub of his cigar into the grass and crushed it under the heel of his boot. "Then trust it. Because I'll tell you right now, I don't trust Emma Frost."
Peter flipped down from the branch, landing silently in the grass beside the X-Man. "Why? She's helping run the school."
"She and Scott are playing house," Logan scoffed, his hands shoved deep into his leather jacket pockets. "They act like they're building a future together, but they're both guarding their own throats."
Logan gestured roughly toward the mansion. "Think about it. The easiest way to find missing mutants is Cerebro. But Scott won't let Frost within ten feet of the machine. He won't even let her use it to track down Jean Grey."
Peter frowned. He knew Cyclops was desperately searching for Jean, holding out hope that the Phoenix Force hadn't completely destroyed her. If Scott wasn't willing to let Emma use the most powerful telepathic amplifier on Earth to find the woman he loved, the trust between them was completely broken.
A sudden, sharp realization hit Peter like a physical blow.
What if this feeling of anxiety... this constant second-guessing of my own mind... is the real attack? Knull didn't need to force Peter to kill anyone. He just needed Peter to doubt the symbiote. If Peter hesitated in combat, paralyzed by the fear of losing control, he would get himself killed. The paranoia wasn't a side effect. It was the weapon.
"Good afternoon, Spider-Man!"
Peter blinked, pulled from his revelation. Kitty came jogging across the lawn. The teenage girl was wearing a crisp, blue-and-yellow X-Men trainee uniform. It fit her perfectly.
"Hey, Kitty," Peter smiled under the mask. "Look at you. The uniform suits you. You look like a real X-Man."
Kitty blushed, nervously rubbing the reinforced fabric of her sleeve. "Thanks. Principal Summers said I could actually go live in Genosha if I wanted to. But... my parents don't care that I'm a mutant. They still want me at home. And honestly, I want to stay here and help. We saved the world together, right?"
She beamed up at him, her eyes shining with absolute, unfiltered optimism. "So, when's the next one? When do we get to save the world again?"
Peter stared at her. He was completely speechless. He didn't know whether to applaud her incredible dedication or gently explain that hoping for another apocalyptic event was a terrible life strategy.
"Uh, well," Peter stammered, rubbing the back of his neck. "Hopefully never. But I won't be around for the next few days to find out. I'm actually heading out of New York for a vacation."