Absolute Spider-Man Chapter 12: Remorseless.

Chapter 12: Remorseless.

(General P.O.V)

In the mirror dimension, Stephen Strange held the Spirit of Vengeance in a prison of shifting geometry—angles folding over themselves in ways that made no earthly sense. The air shimmered with refracted light as the containment pattern spun, its edges warping reality itself. Strange’s hands trembled from the strain. The spell demanded everything he had.

The Ghost Rider strained against it, hellfire seeping through the cracks in jagged bursts. Flames licked the walls of the construct, threatening to burn through entirely.

“Calm your anger, Johnny Blaze,” Strange called out, voice taut. “You’re out of control.”

The Rider’s burning skull turned toward him, chains rattling against unseen boundaries.

“NOT BLAZE,” it roared. “VENGEANCE. MEPHISTO WILL BURN, JUST AS YOU WILL, SORCERER—FOR STANDING IN MY WAY.”

The words reverberated through the dimension like a physical blow. Strange’s jaw set. Holding this thing here much longer was going to be impossible.

Outside, on the rooftop of Fisk Tower, Peter studied the man in front of him. Or rather, the thing. The hellfire chains, the bone showing through scorched flesh.

From the Sorcerer Supreme’s reaction earlier, Peter knew that whatever the Rider was, it was something even Strange feared. His danger-sense seemed to agree, flaring so sharply it was hard to think.

He forced it down. He didn’t need fear right now. With the sorcerers dead and more demons spilling from the sky, he was the only one left to stop this.

“You kidnapped my family,” Peter said into the tense silence. “Traumatized them.”

“Inessential,” Kingpin replied, his voice low but cutting. “Unimportant. Do you have any idea how much loss you’ve caused me? The planning, the blood, the sacrifice it took to build my empire? And then along comes a little insect—some brat too big for his britches—to tear it down.” His burning eyes narrowed. “You started this, boy. But things are different now. A good businessman knows how to recover profit from loss.”

Peter’s gaze hardened.

“You’ve done more than just cost me,” Fisk went on. “Your interference led me to discover something about you, Spider-Man. You carry a Totem in your soul—a connection to the Web of Life. And it will be mine… after I cave your skull in.”

Too worked up to be surprised, Peter nodded slowly. “Then I guess there’s only one way to settle this.”

He stepped forward, discharging a burst of yellow lightning from his hands. The flash cracked across the rooftop, momentarily blinding Fisk. Peter used the opening, springing toward the burning cane floating in the rooftop’s center.

A chain whipped out, searing-hot, wrapping around his heel mid-leap. Peter twisted and fired a web at the cane—only for the line to stick to a knot of Helions circling it. The impact dragged them along with him as Fisk swung him wide with the chain. Peter adjusted mid-air, redirecting the momentum, hurling the snarling demons toward Fisk.

The Kingpin was forced to retract the chain, blocking with it just as the Helions hit. The collision detonated in a burst of fire, shoving Fisk a step back.

The rooftop trembled.

Peter didn’t give him the chance to recover—he darted forward, yellow venom crackling around his fist for a finishing strike.

Kingpin lunged to meet him, closing the distance in a heartbeat. His punch cratered the rooftop, shards of burning concrete spraying out. Each swing after came like a battering ram, the heat from the impacts warping the air. Peter slipped between the haymakers, footwork tight, but with his danger sense shut down, every movement felt slower, every attack harder to read.

He tried to flip the sense back on—and pain stabbed behind his eyes like a spike. It was enough of a delay for Fisk’s fist to connect. Peter got his forearms up in time, but the blow still dented and scorched his armor. His teeth clenched against the force.

He moved to disengage, but a flaming chain looped around his neck, snapping him back into Kingpin’s range. The next hit tore away half his mask and sent him skidding across the rooftop. His skull rang. His vision swam. He couldn’t remember being hit that hard before—his nose was likely broken.

A glance toward the burning cane showed the portal above yawning wider. A claw the size of a city bus was pushing through. He couldn’t quit now.

As Fisk moved in for the next hit, Peter caught his wrist, dropped his weight, and wrenched hard- a wrestling arm lock.

He strained, and the elbow snapped with a sharp crack.

Fisk grunted and drew back, his left arm twisted the wrong way. Then hellfire surged along the limb, snapping bone back into place, flesh knitting whole.

“You can scrap,” Fisk said, voice rumbling. “And you take punishment better than most.”

There was no time left. Peter moved first, nimble on his feet. Fisk met him halfway, body half-consumed in fire. They collided in a blast of heat and lightning that rattled the rooftop.

Peter stopped dodging. He traded blows, punch for punch, every impact like a cannon shot. But Fisk’s mass and strength drove him back step by step.

“You’re not strong enough to stop Hell,” Fisk said between strikes, body surging with hellfire. “Beating my Sinister Six doesn’t mean you can stand against a god. New York is mine. Everything in it is mine. You are mine. I’ll break your will, Parker, then slowly kill you and your family, before feeding your remains to dogs.”

That was the line.

Fisk’s next punch came wrapped in burning chains—and Peter caught it with one palm.

Bam!

The air audibly cracked.

Hellfire scorched his skin, but he didn’t flinch. His voice was level. Cold, but level,

“Repeat that.”

Fisk’s mouth twisted into a grin. “Touched a nerve? You know, Parker, that wife of yours is quite the bea—”

The word never finished. Fisk’s head snapped forward, vision swimming. He realized, dimly, he was on his knees. Peter’s knee kept smashing into his face again and again, each blow faster, harder, the damage outpacing the hellfire’s attempt to repair it.

Fisk tried to swing back, spitting another insult, but Peter spun with the arm in an iron grip and threw him clean over his shoulder. The impact knocked the air from Fisk’s lungs that he lost control. The Ghost Rider’s flames sputtered and dimmed.

Before Fisk could get up, Peter ripped a wire cord from the ground, looped it around his neck, and dragged him to the rooftop’s edge. Then he threw him over, holding him there by the chain as Fisk kicked and thrashed. His face bloated and reddened, fear cutting through the rage.

Just before unconsciousness took him, Peter yanked him back up and drove a boot into his chest. Ribs cracked. Fisk screamed.

Peter silenced him with a sharp slap that sent teeth flying. He pulled him close, eyes flat and dead.

“Repeat what you said, you fat bastard.”

Peter had never killed anyone before—at least, not on purpose.

The worst he’d ever done, even to men who deserved far worse, was break bones, leave bruises, maybe put the worst ones in the hospital.

But right now…

Right now, every nerve, every muscle, every part of him screamed to end Wilson Fisk.

He didn’t see a man in front of him. Not even an animal.

Just a monster wearing the face of a human.

Fisk was mumbling now, voice raw and wet with blood. Apologies. Pleas. Promises he’d change.

Peter didn’t hear a word.

There was another voice—one inside him—growing louder, more insistent.

It told him Fisk deserved nothing less than death.

It reminded and informed him of every crime, every life ruined, every ounce of fear Fisk had spread across the city.

Then it delivered the final blow.

The voice told him something new, something worse.

Peter’s hand trembled as he spoke.

“Tell me… tell me if you really killed your own wife and child. Tell me you sacrificed them—for power. For influence.”

Fisk’s swollen, blood-caked face went pale. His eyes darted, panic breaking through the bravado.

Peter stepped closer, voice a razor.

“Answer me!”

Instead, Fisk broke. Tears spilled down his cheeks. He shuffled backward, bravado gone, his oversized frame almost slipping in his own blood.

“...Master! Master! Save me! I beg you, Lord Mephisto! I’ll sacrifice a hundred—no! Ten thousand souls to you, my Lord! Please…!”

Peter didn’t see it—but the air behind him warped, shadows bending unnaturally. Something vast and invisible loomed, its edges whispering like burning silk. A wide anticipatory grin colored its infernal face.

Mephisto’s voice curled around Peter’s ear.

'Look at him. Remorseless, even now. Trash like him never changes, never rehabilitates. You know what you have to do, Peter. Do the right thing. Spare the world more pain—end this monster.'

Peter’s palm rose, wrapped in sizzling yellow energy sharp enough to cut through steel. His gaze didn’t waver.

He was going to do it.

The hand came down—

“PETEEEERR! ”

The shout ripped through the rooftop, stopping his action.

Gwen. Peter turned towards the direction of her voice.

She stood at the open rear hatch of a Quinjet, Felicia at her side, Mayday just behind them, small hands gripping the frame.

Peter froze. Confusion flickered across his face.

'Why would she come back here?'

That half-second cost him.

Fisk’s body surged upward, chains of dying hellfire still clinging to his arm. In one motion, his fist punched clean through Peter’s chest, burning a hole through sternum and muscle, bursting out between his shoulder blades.

The heat and force burned through Peter’s lungs and heart. His vision blurred.

Gwen’s scream tore across the sky—pure, raw horror.

Peter collapsed to his knees, smoke curling from the wound. And the last thing he heard before toppling over was Fisk’s laughter ringing over the rooftop, manic and triumphant.