Dr. Kesler kept meticulous records.

  Handwritten. Sloppy. Paranoid.

  Buried beneath liquor bottles and unpaid bills, I found them:

  A weathered notebook, spine cracked like old bone.

  Ink faded in places.

  Smudged with guilt.

  But legible enough.

  Spider-991-X.

  A weaponized hybrid. Artificially engineered. Spliced from over thirteen arachnid species, and one subject… undisclosed.

  The entries were erratic.

  Notes spiraled into half-thoughts.

  Drawings turned grotesque near the end.

  Kesler knew what he had seen.

  He just didn't accept it.

  But I would.

  I believed.

  I began with mice.

  It was the safest option.

  I replicated the conditions as best I could.

  Sterilized the workspace.

  Reconstructed the enzyme serum from Kesler’s notes.

  I bred spiders.

  Fed them.

  Milked their venom with trembling hands.

  When I introduced the compound to the first mouse, it convulsed.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Then… nothing.

  No mutation.

  No transformation.

  Just death.

  The second mouse lived.

  But it screamed.

  No vocal cords to scream with—

  But it screamed.

  Its back split open.

  Not in bloom.

  Not like Peter.

  Just raw, ragged, wet failure.

  I tried twelve more.

  Each worse than the last.

  One mouse grew eyes across its belly.

  Another tried to eat itself.

  None of them became.

  And for the first time in months, I felt despair.

  Real despair.

  The kind that presses into your ribs like cold hands.

  I remember sitting on the floor of my basement, covered in blood and webs and disappointment.

  I whispered his name again.

  Not expecting an answer.

  But one came.

  The lights flickered.

  Softly.

  Rhythmically.

  Then—

  A voice.

  Thin. Clicking.

  Not from my ears—

  From behind my eyes.

  “You are close…”

  I gasped.

  I laughed.

  I wept.

  Peter had spoken.

  No.

  He had called to me.

  The mice weren’t enough.

  Of course not.

  They were too small.

  Too simple.

  Too unworthy.

  Peter was human.

  Human, and broken, and bullied.

  He suffered.

  And through suffering, he transcended.

  I needed a better subject.

  A stronger one.

  Someone connected to Peter.

  Someone who hurt him.

  Flash Thompson.

  The schoolyard tyrant.

  The football hero.

  The walking pile of testosterone and self-hate.

  I found his address easily.

  He still lived in Queens.

  Still loud.

  Still angry.

  Still sinful.

  Perfect.

  The ritual would begin soon.

  And this time, Peter would watch.

  [End of Chapter 4]