[3rd Person]
The world tilted. Damon felt the blood drain from his face. "What?" he whispered, the single word choked with disbelief. "That's impossible. Riley... he was my co-worker.He wasn't... he didn't work for you."
"Your little lab was merely a convenient cover," the Rose stated, his voice losing its casual tone, becoming sharper, more businesslike. "They provided the resources, the anonymity. Riley provided the... creativity. His experiments on you, Damon, were conducted under my direction. Your transformation was... orchestrated."
Damon stumbled back a step, his mind reeling. Orchestrated? His powers? The pain, the agony, the loss... all orchestrated?
"And the accident?" Damon asked, his voice trembling, a raw, exposed nerve. "My family... Riley caused that fire! He took them from me!"
The Rose spread his hands, a gesture of mild regret that felt like a profound mockery. "Ah, yes. Your family. A most unfortunate... collateral." He spoke the word like an accountant discussing a negligible loss. "Riley was careless, yes. An unforeseen variable. But the circumstances surrounding the accident, Damon... the experiments, the volatile materials, the location... they were all arranged under my auspices. Your presence there, your proximity to his work... it was necessary for the desired outcome."
Damon stared at him, his eyes wide with horror. Necessary for the desired outcome? The Rose was saying... he was saying his family's death wasn't just a tragic accident caused by a reckless scientist, but a deliberate consequence of the Rose's plan? A plan that resulted in him becoming the Raptor?
"You... you used my family's death?" Damon choked out, the words lodging in his throat like stones. The pain of his loss, the foundation of his identity as the Raptor, the very essence of the rage that had fueled him, felt like a grotesque lie.
"Used it? My dear Damon, I leveraged it," the Rose corrected, a spark of perverse pleasure in his eyes. "Emotion is a powerful tool. Grief, rage, the thirst for vengeance... they are the strongest motivators. So predictable. So easy to control." He tapped a finger against his temple. "You were a perfect candidate, Damon. Intelligent enough to follow complex instructions, broken enough to be utterly consumed by a singular purpose. Your hatred for 'Riley' was... inspiring. It made you remarkably effective."
Every mission he'd undertaken for the Rose, every act of violence, every moment he'd channeled his pain into fighting... it had all been for this man's game. His life, his loss, his very identity as the Raptor, had been built on a foundation of lies provided by the man sitting before him.
"You knew," Damon whispered, the realization a cold, crushing weight. "You knew I'd find out eventually. About Riley working for you. About... this."
He leaned back again, his expression hardening slightly. "Emotional people are simple to manipulate. Their pain, their fear, their love – they are levers. But those feelings... they change. They lessen. Or they turn the subject inwards, making them unpredictable. Your emotional grip on the past, Damon, was my grip on you. And I could sense it weakening."
The warehouse seemed to press in on Damon. The cold, the dust, the silent, menacing presence of the Black Tarantula. Everything clicked into place with sickening certainty. The strange police car, the kidnapping, this private audience. This wasn't about redemption, or a second chance, or even punishment for failure. This was a termination.
He looked at the Black Tarantula, who hadn't moved a muscle, his masked face inscrutable. He was waiting. Waiting for an order.
"So," Damon said, his voice flat, stripped bare of emotion by the sheer magnitude of the betrayal. "The Spider-Man mission... it was a way to get rid of me?"
"Precisely," the Rose confirmed, nodding slowly. "Failure against him would achieve that goal cleanly. Success would have been... acceptable, though managing you afterwards would have required adjustments. Either way, your story, as the Raptor in my employ, was reaching its natural conclusion." He paused, a hint of genuine regret now in his voice, but it was the regret of a collector discarding a broken piece. "It's a shame, truly. You had such... vigour."
Damon felt a surge of something that wasn't rage, wasn't grief. It was a profound, aching emptiness. His entire existence since that fateful day had been a puppet show, his strings pulled by this man. His revenge, his purpose, his pain – all artificial constructs in the Rose's intricate game.
There was nothing left. Nothing to fight for, no one to avenge, nowhere to go. The Rose had taken everything, including the very meaning of his suffering.
The Rose looked at the Black Tarantula, his gaze steady, his voice devoid of inflection now. The conversation was over. The decision had been made long before Damon woke up on the floor.
"Tarantula."
The Black Tarantula straightened from his relaxed posture. There was no hesitation, no question in his stance. He was pure execution.
Damon watched him, morbidly fascinated. He saw a subtle focusing in the lenses of the Black Tarantula's mask. A build-up of energy, silent but visible as a faint, terrible glow behind the dark glass.
There was no time to plead, no energy to fight, not even the urge to scream. Damon's mind was a blank canvas of shattered purpose. His last thought, fleeting and desolate, was of the faces of his wife and children, superimposed over the cold, triumphant smile of the Rose.
Then, a blinding, searing white light erupted from the Black Tarantula's eyes. It struck Damon full in the chest, instantaneous and absolute. There was no pain, only an annihilation of self, a complete and utter erasure.
The light flared, then vanished. The Black Tarantula stood still, his arms dropping back to his sides.
On the cold concrete floor, where Damon Ryder, the Raptor, had stood moments before, there was nothing left but a rapidly dissipating wisp of smoke and a dark, radiating scorch mark.
The Rose got up from the crate, brushing invisible dust from his trousers. He looked at the Black Tarantula.
"Clean," he said, his voice returning to its smooth, cultured tone. "Dispose of... the remnants. And ensure this area is sterile. No trace."
The Black Tarantula nodded, silent and efficient. He moved towards the scorch mark, the embodiment of the Rose's final, brutal word.