[3rd Person]
The world swam before Damon Ryder's eyes, a dizzying kaleidoscope of red and blue lights punctuated by the blinding strobes of police cruisers.
He lay prone on the rain-slicked rooftop, webbing adhering him to the concrete like some grotesque insect specimen. The humiliation was a bitter taste, sharper than the metallic tang of blood in his mouth. All that power, all that rage, rendered useless.
They bundled him down dimly lit stairwells, the thudding of his boots on metal echoing the hollow beat in his chest. Out into the night, into the glare of camera phones and hushed, gawking crowds. He shielded his eyes, the shame burning hotter than any flame. They shoved him into the back of a police car, the door slamming shut with the finality of a coffin lid.
He slumped against the seat, the cheap fabric rough against his costume. Cuffs bit into his wrists. He closed his eyes, exhaustion heavy on his eyelids. The murmurs of the officers upfront were indistinct, a low drone. The car started, pulling away smoothly from the chaos.
But the engine sound felt wrong. Too quiet, too refined for a standard police cruiser. The acceleration was too gentle. He opened his eyes, confusion pricking through the haze of defeat. He peered through the wire mesh separator towards the front. The driver wasn't wearing a uniform. The back of their head was too... familiar.
Damon's breath hitched. Recognition, chilling and unexpected, spread through him. The posture, the cut of the dark jacket, the almost imperceptible scent of an expensive cologne that somehow permeated the disinfectants and stale air of the car.
It was the Rose.
Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the lingering fog of the fight. What was happening? Why was the Rose driving a police car that was clearly transporting him to prison? This made no sense. Was this a rescue? A breakout? But it didn't feel like a rescue. There were no sirens following, no chaotic escape. Just the quiet hum of a car driving purposefully through the night.
He tried to speak, to ask, but his throat felt thick, unused. He shifted, testing the cuffs, but they were solid. The Rose didn't acknowledge him, his focus seemingly fixed on the road ahead. There was an unnerving calmness in his profile, an almost serene detachment.
As the city lights blurred past the windows, a creeping dread settled over Damon. This wasn't right. He felt a sudden, sharp pain at his temple, a blinding flash of white, and then the world dissolved into black.
Consciousness returned like broken glass – sharp, painful shards piecing themselves together in the darkness. Damon's head ached, a dull, throbbing pulse behind his eyes. His mouth was dry, his limbs heavy. He blinked, forcing his eyes open.
Dust motes danced in thin shafts of light filtering through grimy skylights high above. He was on his back, sprawled on a cold, gritty concrete floor. The air smelled of dampness, oil, and something metallic, like old blood or rusting machinery. He was in a warehouse.
He pushed himself up tentatively, his muscles protesting with dull aches. He was no longer in the Raptor costume, just wearing simple dark pants and a thin shirt. The cuffs were gone. He ran a hand over his head.
He looked around the cavernous space. Shadows clung to the corners, obscuring details. Rusting machinery stood like skeletal giants. Piles of crates and tarps created islands of deeper darkness. And in the center of the cleared space, bathed in the meager light, were two figures.
The Rose. And the Black Tarantula.
The Rose sat comfortably on an upturned crate, one leg crossed over the other, a picture of relaxed authority despite the grim surroundings. He was impeccably dressed, even in this desolate place, his suit a stark contrast to the grime. A small, almost imperceptible smile played on his lips. His eyes, intelligent and assessing, were fixed directly on Damon.
Standing ramrod straight behind the Rose was the Black Tarantula, the Rose's silent, terrifying enforcer. A colossus of a man, his face was obscured by the traditional mask, but his presence radiated palpable power. His arms were crossed over his immense chest, a posture of waiting.
Damon pushed himself fully upright, his gaze locking with the Rose's. "Rose?" he rasped, his voice hoarse. "What... what is this? The police car... why?"
The Rose's smile widened slightly, an expression devoid of warmth. He didn't get up, didn't offer a hand. He simply observed Damon like a specimen.
"Ah, Damon. Up at last," the Rose said, his voice smooth and melodic, utterly out of place in the echoing space. "Had quite the tumble tonight, didn't you? Spider-Man. Always... persistent."
He paused, letting his words hang in the air. "Honestly, Damon, I had higher hopes. After all I invested in you. All that potential, squandered on a rooftop brawl."
Damon's confusion deepened, giving way to a flicker of anger. "Invested? You pulled me out of a police car! What was that? A rescue? Why bring me here?"
The Rose chuckled softly, a low, unpleasant sound. "Rescue? My dear boy, you misunderstand. That was merely... relocation. A more private venue for our little conversation." He gestured around the warehouse with one hand. "Much more... conducive to frank discussion than a holding cell, wouldn't you agree?"
A cold knot formed in Damon's stomach. This wasn't a rescue. This felt like... an audience. An interrogation. Or worse.
"Conversation about what?" Damon demanded, straightening his shoulders despite the ache. "I failed the mission, yes. I couldn't get to Spider-Man. But I can try again! Just give me another chance—"
"Oh, the mission was never truly about eliminating Spider-Man, Damon," the Rose interrupted casually, leaning back on the crate. "Not entirely, anyway. Think of it as... multi-purpose. A useful test of the Wall-Crawler's current capabilities, yes. He's becoming quite the nuisance. But also... a final assessment of you."
Damon stared, bewildered. "An assessment? What are you talking about?"
Rose sighed, a theatrical gesture. "Damon, Damon. You're intelligent. More so than many of my... operatives. And intelligence, while valuable, can sometimes be... inconvenient. Especially when coupled with a single-minded, yet increasingly fragile, motivation."
He leaned forward slightly, his eyes fixing on Damon with an intensity that sent a shiver down his spine. "You see, Damon, I knew. Of course, I knew. I knew you were asking questions. Digging. About the accident. About Riley."
"Riley?" Damon breathed, a fresh wave of pain and fury surging through him. "What about Riley? We've already dealt with him, hes in the past. He dosen't matter anymore."
The Rose smiled again, and this time it was a predatory, chilling grin that reached his eyes. "Riley? Oh, Riley was a valuable asset. Such clever work, even if... messy. The kind of messy that produced you, Damon. A fascinating blend of grief and power." He paused, letting the implication hang in the air. "Riley worked for me, Damon. He always did."