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.
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.
Tombstone stood tall, his massive, muscular frame wrapped in a black suit, the very image of a warlord of the underworld. He took a deep breath, his sharp-toothed grin stretching wide as he gazed at the carnage before him.
"I love the smell of smoke and the screams of despair in the night. Haha." His deep chuckle rumbled like thunder as he held a massive machine gun, its barrel still glowing from the heat of its merciless onslaught.
This wasn't just any machine gun—Kingpin didn't play with conventional weapons. This beauty was built using rail gun principles, capable of launching high-velocity rounds at speeds that turned walls into swiss cheese. The recoil alone was enough to break the arms of a normal man, but for Tombstone's superhuman strength, it was as effortless as holding a toy.
In addition to his unstoppable firepower, he wore heat gloves—thick, black gauntlets that could superheat on impact, making his punches hit like molten iron smashing through concrete.
The world had adapted to superhumans, creating elite task forces equipped to handle them. Cops weren't alone anymore—government-backed fighters with enhanced strength, speed, and armor stood among them. They had been experimented on, injected with weaker versions of the Super Soldier Serum, given high-tech weapons, and trained for battle.
But they were still not enough.
The roar of Tombstone's rail gun had torn through the station like a storm, reducing walls to rubble, shredding desks, and turning flesh into mist. The enhanced officers had tried to fight back, but their bullets bounced off his unbreakable skin, and their plasma rifles barely singed his suit.
It was a massacre.
The lucky 80% of cops had managed to reach the reinforced safe zone, hiding like rats in a steel box. The unlucky 20%? Their bodies were scattered across the room, some missing limbs, others reduced to unrecognizable piles of flesh and shattered bone.
The criminals walked through the station as if they owned the place, grabbing weapons, looting evidence lockers, and finally reaching their target—The Persuader, Roland Rayburn.
Tombstone grabbed the dazed mutant, slinging him over his shoulder like a sack of flour.
"Alright, boys. Let's go before the night shift decides to grow a pair."
They stepped out into the cool Harlem night, walking toward their waiting SUVs—modified, armored beasts built to tank explosions and outrun pursuit.
And that was when he arrived.
Peter Parker had seen bad nights.
But this?
This was carnage.
His breath hitched as he perched on the edge of a nearby building, his wide eyes scanning the destruction below.
The police station was in ruins. Walls were riddled with massive bullet holes, the entrance blown apart, and fires flickered in the wreckage. Smoke billowed out, carrying the acrid stench of burnt flesh and gunpowder.
And the bodies.
So many bodies.
Some cops had been cut down mid-run, others crushed under debris, a few reduced to unrecognizable gore.
Peter felt his stomach twist. He had trained himself for situations like this, had always known that the world was brutal, but knowing and seeing were two different things.
His hands clenched into fists.
This wasn't just criminal activity—this was an execution.
Then he saw him.
Tombstone.
The towering albino crime lord stood in the middle of the wreckage, grinning like a demon. The massive machine gun in his grip still hissed with heat, its destruction still fresh. He was laughing, enjoying the chaos he had unleashed.
A streak of movement cut through the air.
"Spidey, let me handle the saving."
Jessica Jones—Jewel—descended from above, her violet hoodie flapping in the wind. Her tone was calm, almost too calm for the chaos surrounding them, but inside, her heart pounded. This was the worst scene she had ever flown into, and she had barely finished her training.
"How?" Peter asked, startled by her sudden arrival.
"I live close by and heard the commotion." Jess answered quickly, realizing that Peter had no idea where she had been staying recently.
Peter exhaled, his rage bubbling just beneath the surface. His mind flashed to May, Ben, everyone he cared about.
This could have been them.
A random attack, a massacre without reason.
It terrified him, but that fear boiled into rage.
He gnashed his teeth. "Thanks, Jess. Please—get those people out of here. I'll handle the criminals."
With precision honed by hours of practice, Peter flicked his fingers, summoning his chakra-infused needles.
They shot through the air like silent death, their enhanced strength making them as lethal as bullets from a sniper rifle.
Thwip!
The projectiles speared through flesh—arms, legs, shoulders. Screams erupted as Tombstone's men crumpled, their limbs suddenly useless, their guns clattering to the pavement.
But Tombstone wasn't like his men.
The moment he felt the first needle pierce his skin, he dove to the side, using his wounded men as meat shields. A veteran of countless battles, he refused to go down like some lowlife punk.
Then—silence.
The shadows seemed to shift. The air felt... different.
Tombstone's men gasped and fired blindly, their panic growing as Spider-Man vanished into thin air.
"The hell?! Where is he?!" one of them shouted, his wide eyes darting through the darkness.
Tombstone gritted his teeth.
"He's here."
His trained senses told him he wasn't alone, but without infrared gear, he was blind.
'Should've brought the damn goggles,' he cursed.
Then, all hell broke loose.
Before Tombstone could react, a web shot out—sticky, strong, unrelenting.
Thwip!
It latched onto his oversized rail gun, yanking it straight from his grip.
"What the f—"
The gun flew across the battlefield, landing in Spider-Man's waiting hands.
Tomb barely had time to process his loss before another web latched onto his leg.
With a mighty tug, Peter yanked him forward, sending the hulking crime lord flying—
CRASH!
He slammed into a lamp post, the metal pole bending from the impact. The streetlights flickered, casting long, jagged shadows over the battlefield.
The crime lord rolled his shoulders, his massive frame casting a shadow over the wreckage. His dark suit was torn, revealing gray, rock-hard skin beneath, still bleeding from the needle wounds. But if he felt pain, he didn't show it.
Instead, he grinned, raising one massive, gauntleted hand. The heat gloves hummed to life, their metal plating glowing red-hot, distorting the air around them.
"I gotta say, Spider," he rumbled, his deep voice like gravel against steel, "I didn't expect you to fight so dirty."
Peter cracked his neck, dropping into a stance, his fists clenched.
"Yeah?" he shot back. "I didn't expect you to be such a weakling."
Tombstone's grin disappeared.
The gloves roared to life, and with blinding speed, he lunged.
Peter's spider-sense screamed, and he dodged on instinct.
WHOOSH!
A searing-hot punch missed his head by inches, the sheer heat wave alone singing the side of his mask. The air shimmered, and the concrete where he had stood seconds ago melted into slag.
Peter flipped over him, aiming a web shot straight at Tombstone's face.
Thwip!
But before the web could reach him—
FZZT!
The instant the web touched the heat glove, it disintegrated.
Peter's eyes widened.
"Oh, you've gotta be kidding me—"
Tombstone turned fast—too fast for someone his size. His foot shot out, catching Peter mid-air and launching him like a cannonball.
CRASH!
Peter smashed through a cop car, denting the metal before rolling onto the street.
Before he could move, Tombstone was already there.
Peter's eyes widened as a molten-hot fist came down, aiming straight for his chest.
He barely managed to cross his arms in defense before—
BOOM!
It felt like being hit by a sledgehammer made of the sun.
Peter's arms screamed in pain, the sheer heat burning through his suit, searing his skin underneath. He gritted his teeth, muscles straining against the pressure.
Tombstone loomed over him, pressing down, grinning through the heat haze.
"You're strong, Spider," he mused. "But I can break you."
Peter roared and kicked out, catching Tombstone in the gut and sending him skidding backward.
His arms were aching, but there was no time to think.
He vaulted forward, twisting mid-air, and fired two web lines to pull himself at blinding speed—
BAM!
His fist slammed into Tombstone's jaw, sending a shockwave through the air. The crime lord stumbled back, cracking the pavement with each step.
Peter followed up with a barrage of punches, aiming for the wounds he had already inflicted.
Left hook. Right hook. Gut shot. Elbow to the ribs.
WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!
But Tombstone wasn't just tanking the hits—he was getting angrier.
Peter threw a spinning kick—
And Tombstone caught his leg mid-air.
Before Peter could react, Tombstone yanked him down, spinning and slamming him into the pavement like a ragdoll.
BOOM!
The ground shattered beneath them, spiderweb cracks spreading across the asphalt.
Peter's head rang, stars exploding in his vision.
Tombstone grabbed him by the throat, lifting him off the ground, his grip like a steel vice crushing his windpipe.
"You think you're a monster, kid?" he growled, heat gloves activating again. The temperature spiked, Peter's mask starting to smolder from proximity.
"Let me show you a real one."
He thrust Peter forward, his glowing palm aiming for Spider-Man's face—
But Peter twisted mid-air, using the momentum to swing both feet into Tombstone's chest, breaking free.
He landed and backflipped away, breathing hard.
"Okay," he muttered, shaking his hands, "those things need to go."
Tombstone charged again, but Peter was ready.
He feinted to the side—then threw two explosive web pellets.
They detonated mid-air, covering Tombstone's arms and gloves in a sticky, insulated webbing.
The heat gloves short-circuited instantly.
Tombstone growled, shaking his arms, but the webbing held.
Peter closed the distance in a flash, planting a hand on the ground and swinging his entire body into a vicious kick to the ribs.
CRACK!
Tombstone gasped, his body skidding across the street.
Peter wasn't done.
He webbed both of Tombstone's legs, then yanked him forward.
The crime lord flew toward him, helpless—
And Peter caught him with a brutal rising knee to the jaw.
BAM!
Tombstone's head snapped back, and for the first time that night, Peter saw him falter.
He pressed the advantage, moving like a shadow.
A spinning kick to the ribs.
A backflip into a downward axe-kick to the head.
Tombstone stumbled—
And Peter webbed his feet to the ground, pinning him in place.
"Give up," Peter growled, standing tall, his dark suit blending into the shadows.
Tombstone panted, blood dripping from his mouth, but he grinned through the pain.
"Next time, Spider," he muttered. "You won't be so lucky."
For the first time, Tombstone felt weak.
For the first time, he was losing.
Peter didn't hesitate.
He launched forward, his suit blending into the darkness, a streak of vengeance with fangs bared.
Tombstone barely had time to raise his hands before—
CRACK!
A devastating stomp landed directly onto his legs.
BONE SNAPPED.
A monstrous, inhuman scream tore through the night.
Tombstone's knees buckled, his legs giving out from under him. He hit the ground hard, gasping for breath, rage and agony twisting his face.
Peter landed beside him, his eyes cold, his heart pounding.
He wasn't done.
CRACK!
Peter grabbed one of Tombstone's massive arms and—without hesitation—snapped it at the elbow.
Another roar of pain erupted from the crime lord.
But through the suffering, Tombstone chuckled.
"Haha… you're different from what I expected, Spider." His voice was strained, but amused.
Peter didn't answer.
His dark-suited figure loomed over him, his presence heavy, merciless.
He crouched low, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Stings, doesn't it?"
Tombstone's red eyes flickered.
"Remember—they felt worse."
The words carried a promise of vengeance, a reminder of the lives lost tonight.
Tombstone's grin faded.
Peter stood up, his breathing controlled, steady. His fists trembled, not from fear—but from the burning desire to finish this once and for all.
The battlefield was silent, save for the distant wail of sirens and the groans of the fallen. Smoke curled into the night sky, illuminated by the flickering streetlights that had barely survived the chaos.
Peter stood over Tombstone's crumpled form, his chest rising and falling with controlled breaths. The man was unconscious—but Peter wanted to make sure he stayed that way.
He flexed his right palm, summoning the stinger from beneath his skin. It slid out like a blade, sleek, sharp, and dripping with a faint purple toxin.
Without hesitation, he drove it straight into Tombstone's chest.
The crime lord twitched, his body reacting to the poison immediately. His already ashen skin grew paler, his breathing slowing to a sluggish crawl.
Peter pulled the stinger free and let it retract back into his palm.
The poison wasn't lethal—not yet. But it would paralyze him, shutting down his nervous system, and leave him in a coma for at least a month. A man like Tombstone? He'd wake up weaker than ever.
Peter wasn't about to let him recover easily.
"Sweet dreams," he muttered.
Then, he got to work.
Tombstone's heat gloves were the first thing to go. Peter tore them off his hands, examining the tech for a moment before stuffing them into a storage seal on his wrist.
Then came the rail gun—a weapon far too advanced for street thugs. He inspected it briefly, noting the energy coils and sleek frame, before sealing it away as well.
His eyes swept the battlefield.
Tombstone's gang had brought an entire armory with them tonight.
And now?
It was all his.
He moved through the wreckage like a shadow, stripping the downed criminals of their high-tech weapons, armor plating, and even their encrypted comms devices.
A few had exoskeletons—lightweight, meant to enhance strength and endurance. Peter disabled them and took the core components.
Even their vehicles— heavily armored SUVs with military-grade engines—weren't safe.
He hacked into their security systems, deactivating any trackers before sealing the entire fleet into his storage seal.
By the time he was done, Tombstone's gang had nothing left.
No weapons. No armor. Not even a getaway car.
Just bodies webbed together in a humiliating heap, left for the authorities to clean up.
A shuffle echoed from the shattered police station doors.
Peter turned his head, his mask's lenses narrowing as the remaining cops cautiously stepped into the open.
Their faces were a mix of awe and fear, eyes darting between the wreckage, the unconscious criminals, and the webbed-up pile of bodies.
None of them spoke at first.
Finally, one officer found his voice.
"…It's over?"
Peter crossed his arms, tilting his head. "Yeah."
Another cop looked at the disarmed, webbed-up thugs and let out a slow whistle. "Jesus. You got all of them?"
Peter shrugged. "Most of them. A few ran."
An older officer, probably the highest-ranking one left, stepped forward. "And Tombstone?"
Peter glanced at the unmoving body of the crime lord.
"Alive," he said flatly. "But he won't be waking up for a long time."
The officers exchanged glances.
One of them looked like he wanted to ask what Peter had done to him—but wisely kept his mouth shut.
Instead, the lead officer nodded. "We'll take it from here."
Peter didn't linger.
His work was done.
With one last look at the defeated criminals, he leapt into the night, vanishing into the shadows.
Tonight, Spider-Man didn't just win.
He took everything.
As Spider-Man battled Tombstone, Jessica Jones—Jewel—focused on saving those caught in the crossfire.
The police station was a warzone. Bodies lay sprawled across the shattered pavement, bullet casings gleamed under the streetlights, and the acrid scent of gunpowder and burning metal filled the air.
But despite the carnage, some people were still alive.
Jessica gritted her teeth and sprang into action.
She found a young officer slumped against a wall, his hand weakly pressing against a gunshot wound in his abdomen. His breathing was ragged, his face pale with blood loss.
Jessica knelt beside him and tore off part of her jacket, pressing it firmly against the wound.
"Hey, stay with me," she muttered. "I am not carrying your ass all the way to the hospital."
The officer coughed weakly, eyes fluttering open. "J-Jewel?"
Jessica rolled her eyes but kept pressure on the wound. "Yeah, yeah, it's me. Stay still, alright? You're not dying on my watch."
Near a collapsed section of the station, muffled cries for help drew her attention.
Jessica gritted her teeth and grabbed the edge of the fallen concrete, her muscles straining as she lifted the heavy slab. Beneath it, a trapped policewoman gasped for breath, her leg pinned under debris.
Jessica tossed the concrete aside and quickly pulled the woman free.
"You good?"
The officer winced, clutching her leg, but nodded. "I… I think so."
"Good." Jessica scooped her up effortlessly and carried her away from danger, setting her down with the other survivors.
Not everyone could be saved.
Jessica found bodies, some riddled with bullet holes, others crushed under rubble.
For a moment, she just stood there, clenching her fists, her throat tight with frustration.
She wasn't used to this kind of battlefield. She wanted to save them all.
But she wasn't a miracle worker.
Taking a shaky breath, she forced herself to move on—to find the ones she could save.
By the time Peter had finished dealing with Tombstone, Jessica had done everything she could.
She stood near a group of wounded officers, hands on her hips, exhaustion visible in her posture.
One of the cops, an older man, looked at her with a mixture of gratitude and disbelief. "You… you saved a lot of people tonight."
Jessica exhaled sharply and shrugged. "Yeah, well… don't get used to it."
Another officer, a woman covered in dust and blood, gave a weak, appreciative smile. "You were amazing."
Jessica rubbed the back of her neck, uncomfortable with the praise. "Yeah, yeah. Just try not to get shot next time."
As the police gathered their wounded and dealt with the aftermath, Peter approached Jessica.
His mask was still on, but his body language screamed exhaustion and guilt.
Jessica knew that look.
The weight of seeing innocent people suffer.
Without a word, Peter pulled her into a tight hug.
Jessica blinked in surprise before awkwardly patting his back. "Uh, you good there, Spidey?"
He pulled back just enough to kiss her cheek, murmuring, "Thank you."
Jessica rolled her eyes but smirked slightly. "You're such a dork."
Peter didn't even argue. He just gave her a tired smile, then turned back to the scene—his mind clearly still stuck on the horror of the night.
Jessica sighed. She knew he needed space.
"Go think about your existential crisis or whatever," she muttered. "I'm heading home."
Peter gave her one last appreciative glance before vanishing into the night.
Jessica watched him go, then exhaled.
"What a damn night."