Chapter One. The Deal.

My name is Captain George Stacy. Some people might say that I'm the only good cop left in the city; at the very least, the only honest one. Most of the officers look honourable on the outside, but if you probe deeper, specifically, in their pockets, you'll find dirty money, hot drugs and bloody hands. While once the police was a symbol of purity and courage, it has now become an elitist league of underhanded thieves and drugdealers and these criminals walk the streets with registered guns and badges. The walk outside the law.

The Chief of Police Wilson Fisk pretends not to notice the sinister events transpiring in his own police force but, truthfully, he's more corrupt than the whole lot of them put together. He has the city at the end of marionette strings, controlling the Mayor, the District Attorney and countless city officials that hold influence in the city. It's possible that the Chief of Police could be the most powerful crime boss in the city.

I try my hardest to ignore what happens around me and just do my job the way I was taught but that is becoming increasingly difficult. They've got me partnered up with some punk kid who's young enough to be my son and doesn't give a shit about the citizens of this city.

Tonight is my first day back to work after a two week leave. My daughter was murdered only 15 days ago; she was raped and violated and her killer has pictures of the whole ordeal. I haven't slept more than two hours each night since it happened. How can I sleep when there is a man on the streets with photographs of my baby girl, naked and defiled?

Everybody told me I should take more time off work but I could not just sit in my bedroom crying. I needed a distraction; something that could start my healing process.

My "partner" and I are on the trail of the city's most notorious cat burglar. She is the freakiest thing I've ever encountered in my career. She strikes without motive or pattern and nobody ever has any clue she was there until she's long gone. But that is not what is odd about her. This burglar goes by the name "Black Cat". She dances around the city at night dressed in tight black leather, garnished with white fur around her neck and wrists. The white fur is her unintentional calling card. We always find a hair or two at her every crime scene, telling us it was the Cat who was there.

We have received a number of tips saying that she has been seen around this part of the city, bouncing around the rooftops seemingly only for amusement. My partner and I pull the cruiser up to the curb when I think I see a moving shadow on the top of a small apartment building.

"There," I point. "I think that's her! C'mon," I say, opening the car door.

"What?!" he yells ignorantly.

"We're chasing her!" I glare back at him.

"Chasing her?! Are you nuts?!"

Maybe I am. But at any rate, I run out of the car and he follows behind me. The Cat notices us down on the street and runs along the roof, giggling and jumping to the next building. She giggled. I continue running adjacently to her, but on completely different levels, as my partner begins to trail behind.

"Keep up, Billy!" I chide him, keeping my eyes ahead of me. As the Black Cat hops to a lower building, I quickly turn down the neighbouring alley and sink into the shadows. I escalate the tenuous ladder and as I reach the roof I see her still there, sitting on the edge of the building with one leg crossed over the other.

"Well it wouldn't be much fun if I had a head start, now would it?" she asks in her soft yet seductive voice. She abruptly jumps up from her position and leaps onto the next rooftop with ease. I look down at my partner, panting on the sidewalk, and chase after her, frightfully hopping over the enormous gap between buildings. I reach the other side safely and smile to myself, still in pursuit of my attractive target. I leap to the next building after her, beginning to shorten the distance between us. I may be an estimated 20 years her senior but I can still hold my own. I am still gaining on her and as I get close enough I leap into the air and take her down with me. We end up on the ground, her below me and me holding her to the ground by her shoulders, staring into her eyes. She sighs, a little confused that I caught her.

"My, my, Captain, you've been exercising." She smiles.

"Shut up, Cat." I snap back. "You're coming with me."

"Oh, c'mon, Cap. I'm sure we can come to some sort of agreement," she grins widely.

"No can do."

She runs her clawed finger across my shirt and rips a button off gently, sneaking the claw onto my chest. "Word on the street is that as of a few months ago, you're a widower." She swirls the claw lightly on my skin, gathering the hair delicately. "Perhaps I can do you a little favour, and you can do one for me. Don't worry," she nods her head. "It'll be our little secret.-"

I quickly grab her neck to silence her. "Don't ever speak about my wife again. Ever." As I let go, she rubs her neck and rotates her head around in a small circle.

"Jesus. I must've hit a raw nerve."

As I am reminded of my wife my mind wanders to Gwen and an idea quickly leaps through my mind.

"Wait. Maybe there is something you can do for me."

When I walk back down the street, my partner is already back in the patrol car, sitting in the passenger's seat with his arms crossed.

"Well...?" he asks as I open the driver's side door.

She, uh, she got away," I sigh. "She got away."

I realize now that the concept of an honest cop in this city has just become extinct.

Chapter Two. Superstition.

My name is Peter Parker. Some people might say that I'm a monster, a murderer, a freak of nature. They're right. Despite the arachnid-given powers I now have, I was too weak to deny the dark part of my mind that fought to the forefront and took control of my actions. Because of that weakness I became a devilish goblin and killed the poor girl that I loved, raping her before she fell into the deep silence of the Hudson river.

In the end, it seemed to be the PCP I was taking that weakened and began to silence that diabolic part of my mind and it was the vision of Gwen's shattered body striking through black waves that finally gave me enough strength to fight the darkness that infested me. I was too late to save her.

The darkness still breathes within me and I must forever remain strong so that it does not corrupt me again. My continuing use of PCP seems to quiet the urging voices inside me and now the only voice I hear is the echoing of my Uncle Ben. "Absolute power corrupts absolutely," he said. He proved to be right and now it is my responsibility to not keep these powers to myself but to use them to the benefit of those who may not be able to protect themselves.

I now perch near the peak of the tallest building in this residential area, draped over the body of a demonic stone gargoyle. Dressed in form-fitting shadows, I screen the streets below through the slanted white eyes of my mask, listening attentively for changes in the busy noise. Since my transformation my senses have been heightened, my sight and hearing seeming most especially acute. I am far more aware of my surrounding than even before. I watch with great attention the events below, as I have become the protector and sentry of upper Manhattan. It is now my duty to protect innocent people who might be put in danger by monsters like me. It is all I can do to appease the other unquenchable beast that prowls my mind: my conscience.

Breaking my wandering thoughts, I hear a frightened scream chased by reckless and mindless chuckles. My body jolts to attention and with my back arched forward and my elbows far behind my spine I lower my head and survey the dark alleys below me. Quickly I notice a frightened young woman being chased by two intimidating boys, both causing quite a ruckus with their shouts and threats. From even this height I notice that the girl is about 16 years old, attractive and perfectly decorated with beautiful blonde hair. The boys are probably around the same age.

Abruptly, I leap off the gargoyle and plummet from the building with the instinctual grace of a gymnast. Falling through the air swiftly, I briefly enjoy the feeling of the cool wind rustling past my body, caressing and soothing my muscles and soul. Without much movement, I use my two middle fingers to push the tendons in my palm and cause a silky stream of web to shoot out of my wrist and through the carefully placed hole in my glove. It strikes the brick facade of an apartment building and I swing through the air, jumping off the web and onto the building, adhering easily to its surface. I accomplished all this with such quiet grace that nobody below even noticed me.

"This is gonna be more fun than usual, eh, Mikey?" one boy says, smiling a wiry grin at his friend and rubbing his palms against eachother. "Look at the rack on 'er."

"This one's 'bout more than money tonight, Sean," the other boy smiles, licking his lips anxiously.

Muggers. I am so tired of muggers. That is all I've seen for the past two weeks. They are pathetic people; people too lazy and stupid to get a job that they prey on people smaller than them so they can make end's meat. These kids have probably both run away from home and are living together in a low-rent apartment, living off of cheap pizza. Or maybe they're brothers whose alcoholic parents have kicked them out after they got bad grades. What got them to this stage in life is never important. Once they're here, these muggers are all the same. They sicken me to my core. And eerily, they all remind me of Flash Thompson. Maybe that is why I enjoy this so much.

As the boys begin to back the poor girl against the wall behind her, I jump off the wall and land artfully between the prey and her predators.

"What the fuck is this?" One kid yells, tossing his hands out in front of him.

"You two had better leave this girl alone," I instruct them through my mask.

"Or what?!" The other boy threatens.

I am somewhat glad they cannot see the cocky smile under my mask. It is always more fun when they think they have the upper hand.

Five minutes later, the girl is frightened but safe and the two punks are bruised and battered, swinging softly from a lamp-post and webbed together in a very embarrassing "69" position. I told the girl to call the police from a nearby pay phone and wait by the side of the road until they arrived. The cops will have a good chuckle when they see their perpetrators squirming to get out of the compromising pose I've set them up in. I cannot help but laugh at it myself.

Scaling the building quickly, I return to my perch and watch the girl from above until the police arrive.

"Nice work," I'm startled by a female voice coming from behind me. I turn to see a well-formed woman kneeling close to the ground, half-emmersed in shadows. She is dressed in tight black leather and her long white hair stands out from the darkness surrounding her. "I was watching you."

"Who are you?!" I snap back.

"I had almost given up hope of finding you," she continues, ignoring my question. "I'd been prowling the streets all night without any sign of you when I decided that I'd wait until tomorrow night to continue the search. I noticed the two kids attacking that girl and figured it'd be fast and easy money to pick them off when they were done, after they did all the work robbing her. I watched them from that rooftop over there and waited patiently for them to get on with it."

"Why are you following me?!"

"And then there you were, jumping in to save the day! That didn't seem much like what I'd heard of you, but I had finally found you, nonetheless. 'Bout time," she grumbles. "Oh, and to answer your questions, I am the Black Cat and I'm following you to pay off a debt."

"Those boys were going to rape that girl," I reiterate. "Weren't you going to do anything to stop them?"

"It's not my problem," she shrugs and smiles. "Besides, that would've been kind of fun to watch."

I am left speechless by that last comment and instead try desperately to ignore it. "What do you want from me?"

She contemplates for a moment, staring at the tight material wrapped around my muscles. "Naw," she shakes her head. "Telling you would be no fun. I'd much rather frisk you for it." She slowly licks her lips enchantingly.

"No thanks," I shake my head and turn back to watching the streets.

Black Cat leaps softly into the air and mauls me to the floor, pushing my shoulders and back flat against the surface. "I wasn't asking you," she smiles, searching her hands around my hips and thighs. Purring softly, she pushes her hands over the ridges of my abdomen and chest. I quickly shove her body off of mine and she tumbles to the roof's surface.

"Excuse me, young lady," I shrug my shoulders. "But let's respect eachother's personal space!" I circle my hands around me as if forming a surrounding cage. "Keep your hands to yourself. Now if you'll excuse me," I step backwards and stand on the very edge of the building. "I must be going."

Stepping back once more, I drop off the building and plummet to the streets below. Only a few feet above the concrete, I shoot a webline to a nearby lamp-post and swing in a wide circle to land on the lamp's thin, horizontal neck. Wrapping my toes around the pole, I look back up to the top of the building just in time to see the Black Cat dive off the roof with as much confidence as an Olympic swimmer. She plunges off the building quickly and I swallow heavily, anticipating her to somehow slow her own descent. She continues to fall through the night air without salvation and as she comes dangerously close to the ground, I leap into the air, spraying a thin web that attaches to the building beside me. As I swing higher into the air, I catch the Black Cat safely in my arms, flipping through the air once and landing softly on the ground with her in tow.

"You're not getting away that easily," she tells me, completely calm.

"Are you insane?!" I scream at her. "You just jumped off a 28-story building!"

"Yes, I did," she replies non-chalantly. "And you caught me. I knew you wouldn't just let me die."

"You're crazy," I scoff. I let her down on the ground and turn around, walking away without looking back.

Before I even notice that she has followed me, the Black Cat wraps her arms around my neck loosely and runs her fingers along the side of my masked face. She leans her head in closer and whispers in my ear. "Of course I am," she says softly. "And you love it, don't you?"

Chapter Three. The Dearly Departed.

My name is Harry Osborn. Some people might say that I'm the most popular guy at school. I always get good grades, I'm co-captain of the football team, I'm well dressed, I have all the latest CDs and the best luxuries. The other guys like me, girls like me, teachers like me. But what they know about me is only what they see on the surface. None of my friends have ever bothered to look deeper. They're only concerned with the fact that I'm an Osborn, a member of one of the wealthiest families in the city. Everybody thinks I must be as happy as I am popular or rich.

It's ironic that with all the friends I have, I fall asleep every night feeling secluded and lonely. Sometimes it feels like my parents forget I even exist. Of course they're sure to leave me their charge cards so I can buy all that I need but it's rare that I see mom or dad face-to-face. Sure, I know where they are. Mom is usually drinking in the den or playing cards with her friends. Dad was almost always hidden away in his workshop, working hard to develop the newest electronic miracle. He'd work well into the night hours, scratching away at his drafting table that was only dimly lit by the surrounding computer screens. Sixteen days ago, my father was viciously killed right outside this very house. His murderer ripped open his bowels and tore off his face. But right now, while I'm supposed to be grieving, my feelings are more mixed up than ever before. How can I mourn when I haven't noticed any difference in my daily routine? I know in my head that Norman Osborn is dead and gone for good, but in my heart I know that my father died many years ago, only to be replaced with a phantom with an insatiable thirst for money and fame. With each new success my father reached, the phantom grew stronger and stronger. Eventually it grabbed hold of my mother as well and, in the process, pushed me to the background. Their only concern became the pursuit of more success, more money and more power.

My father spent his working hours developing computers and household technology, but in the night hours, he developed advanced weapons technology sold either on the black market or to American or international crime lords. Late at night when I would find my father in his workshop designing new technology, I'd mutter a simple good-night phrase and wait patiently for a reply, eye contact or anything to remind me that I mattered. After he finished the current portion of his sketch, he'd lift his head and force the same words from his mouth. Without turning his head to look at me, he'd sigh at the interruption and return to work.

One night I finally realized that my father would never be interested or concerned in me. I decided that the only way he might even acknowledge me was if I showed interest in the only thing he cared about: his designs. Late in the evening, I walked into his workshop and stood behind him. "What are you doing?" I asked him. He rolled his eyes and looked up at me, annoyed by my curiosity.

"It's a design for a solitary flying device and strength enhancing flight suit," he said callously, half-expecting me to already know what was on his drawing board. "The glider is designed for low-level, urban flight paths and is equipped with acute heat lasers and miniature smart bombs. The flight suit is designed to enhance the wearers strength 5 times and can withstand high velocities."

"Wow, Dad," I feigned interest, acting like I knew as much about electronics as he did. "That face mask looks cool. Why is it going to be sculpted that way?"

My father seemed less annoyed with my questions now and as he explained his designs to me he was filled with an open pride I rarely see. "That was a request from the man who commissioned these machines. He asked that their faces produce a preliminary fear in their targets."

"They...they look like monsters."

"That's the idea."

"Oh," I muttered, looking away from the mask's grimace. "Who's buying these things?"

"He calls himself the Kingpin. He's supposedly some underground crime boss. I've never seen his face because he only communicates through the phone."

"Oh. That's cool. What do you think he's going to be using them for?"

"Beats me. He's asked that I produce two dozen sets of the gliders and suits, so he must have big plans for them. But after they leave my hands, they're his responsibility. For the money he's paying me I'm willing to overlook any misuse of the technology."

"Of course," I agree. "Of course."

"Look, Harry, I should get back to work. I'm hoping to have the prototype finished by tomorrow afternoon."

"Sure, dad."

"Good night, son. Maybe I'll see you for a late dinner tomorrow."

"That would be great," I smiled back. "Good night."

I went to bed happy that night and my house seemed like such a smaller place. I was so engrossed by the fact that my father called me his "son" that all my other problems seemed so insignificant and unimportant. I fell asleep with a smile adhered to my chin that I, surprisingly, still found there the next morning. I had no idea then that the night before had been the last time I would ever see my father alive. He never made it home in time for us to share that dinner together. He was taken from me too early, but at least he left me a gift to avenge his death.

As I walk into my father's workshop I can nearly feel his restrained presence as I breathe it in with a thick breath. I walk over to a long metal table beside his drawing board and look down at the green, molded suit lying there. This is my tool for revenge. After I kill my father's murderer, everything will be perfect. I just know it. My mother will hug me and thank me for what I've done and as we laugh and smile together, my father will look down upon us and he'll finally be proud of me. After the murderer is dead, everything will be just perfect.

Chapter Four. The Assignment.

My name is Ned Leeds. Some people may think that I am just a reporter, but there's more to it than that. I am a detective, a story-teller and a city-wide personality all rolled into one being. Most people think they hate reporters. They see us as sly nightcrawlers who lurk in the shadows of people's privacy, looking for the next big story. They think they hate us and they express their disdain publicly, but they all flock to the television or the newspaper everyday to see what we have to say next. The public depends on us to tell them what to do, what to watch, what to think. They would never admit it or even realize it but we gurus of media organize and rule their lives. They need us.

I have vowed to myself to always tell the truth no matter how ugly or frightening it may be. This is partly why I have become such a success in this business. I don't sugar-coat anything.

It is because of this relationship with the truth that I will always admit openly that I do feel a certain sense of power from my hold over the public's attention and opinions. That feeling of power over a city has become a large part of my personality. I know that the people say they hate me. That does not bother me and never has. I know that the media is their ruler and I am their king.

I work at the Daily Bugle, the city's largest and most successful paper. Sixty-five percent of the city reads the Bugle and, in turn, me, every morning. The paper's success has made its publisher J. Jonah Jameson a very rich man. He is also the one man I know who is more pessimistic and arrogant than I am.

"Good evening, Betty," I smile at Jonah's attractive receptionist as I rush through the busy offices of the Daily Bugle. "Is Mr. Jameson in his office? He wanted to see me."

"He's waiting for you, Ned," she smiles a little wickedly, giggling lightly. "Good luck."

As I open the door to Jonah's office I see the middle-aged man standing in front of his desk with his arms crossed wrathfully.

"Good evening, Ned," he says restrictively.

"What's up, Jonah?"

"I need you to read something for me," he responds, fishing through a drawer in his desk. "You can do that, right?"

"Um...sure, Jonah," I say, a little confused.

He holds a paper closely in front of my face. "This is The Post," he says. "What does the front-page headline say?"

"'Mysterious 'Spider-Man' Haunts City Criminals'," I read.

"Right, right. And this one? This is the Times."

"'Osborn Killer suspected of involvement in 'Spider-Man' Vigilante case'."

"Good, good. Now here is our paper, Ned. What does this headline say?"

"It says: 'Police Chief involved in Cover-up Scandal?'"

"Yes, exactly. Do you see a problem here?"

"Well, I--"

"It's old news, Leeds!!" he screams, tossing the Bugle into the air! "The fucking Post and the Times both outsold the Bugle on newsstands this morning because of this...this 'Spider-Man' character in the headlines! Wilson Fisk is old news, Leeds, and I don't want to see him on the Bugle's front-page anymore, you got that?!"

"But, Jonah, the public deserves to know what the pol--"

"No 'buts', Ned! If you want to keep your job you'll get me something on this Spider-Man that I can put on our front page."

"Mr. Jameson, how do you expect me to--?"

"I don't care how you do it, Leeds, just do it. Get me something...anything! Just do it."

"Of course, Mr. Jameson."

As I walk out of the fiery office, Betty is waiting for me at the side of her desk. "He's just blowing steam, Ned."

"I know, Betty. But thanks. I should be heading out. I have a lot of work to do."

Chapter Five. Kindred Spirits.

My name is the Black Cat. Some people may think that they're safe from me, but they're not. I own these streets at night. I prowl through the darkness and everything is open to me; everything is mine for the taking.

They may think their petty locks can keep me out. They may think their expensive alarms can scare me away. The Police may think they can stop me. They're all wrong.

I live in ultimate freedom and nothing can contain me. I go where I like and take what I want. I live only as an expression of the darkness, a piece of the night that has broken off and gained its own consciousness. The night air enfolds me and I welcome it. I wrap it more tightly around me, smothering and comforting myself in its soft, velvety touch. It soothes me and caresses me as a mother would her first-born child. Each night I ride its winds high above the city and come as close as I can to rejoining the shadows that birthed me. I leap from building to building with feline grace, looking randomly for my next adventure; my next big heist.

Last night on my prowl I was almost caught by my long-time pursuer Captain George Stacy. While I would not have allowed myself be caged for long, I made a deal with Stacy to ensure my continuing freedom. The man's daughter was recently raped and killed and the perp's got pictures of the whole thing. While Stacy pledges to catch the guy himself --any way possible, he says-- he wants me to recover the film negatives from him immediately. Stacy wants to snap the cuffs on the murderer himself, but he hasn't been able to stand the thought that he's got photos of his daughter in those positions. For me, getting the film back is just a night of unusual fun. I'm always up for a good chase when I can find one.

The killer is linked to one other murder and, strangely, 16 vigilante activities in the last two weeks. The link between all 18 events is the strange silky material found at each crime scene the the often brutal treatment of the criminals he takes down. He seemed like my type of man.

After a long search this evening I finally found this suspect during his latest "heroic" act, kicking the shit out of two sexually charged punk teenagers. He wasn't at all what I expected to find. He was solemn and calm and had a passion for the night. His appreciation of the healing powers of the smooth darkness of the night hours echoed my own. That is partially why I became so attracted to him so quickly. Also very appealing to me was his easily corruptible personality and naivete.

"Why won't you just leave me alone?!" He screams to me as I chase him rapidly across a string of buildings high above the streets.

"If you really wanted to be alone," I laugh in retort, "You would've already swung away on those webs of yours. Even in you convince yourself you should be alone, deep down you still want me around so you'll have someone to talk to...so you won't be so lonely. Aren't I right?"

He slows his pace and allows me enough time to catch up to him. "Why do you think you know me so well?!"

"Because in a way," I tell him, reaching out to his shoulder to stop his flight. "We're very similar." He turns to face me and finally listens attentively. "I also convince myself that I'll be happier with nobody around to screw things up. I tell myself that I'm not like all those people down there and that none of them understand me...but despite my differences, I still get lonely just like everyone else."

He looks wanderingly at me but his emotions are hidden from me behind his dark and eerie mask.

"I get lonely too," he whispers.

"I know," I tell him, placing my hand softly on the spider emblem on his chest and running my fingers down his abdomen. "Up here in the rooftops, Spider, we're kindred spirits. Maybe we can understand each other." I stare closely at his covered face, trying to read some sort of emotion, but he is too hidden, too guarded.

"We're also very different," he counters, remaining arcanely still. "You prey on those people down there. I try to protect them."

"Do you really care about those people you save? Or is there some other reason you do this? Guilt, perhaps?"

He crosses his arms offensively at the probing question. "I...why have you been following me all night?"

I stare at him for a moment and show my disappointment at the quick change of subject. "I'm returning a favour," I admit. "Somebody has sent me to get something from you."

"What could you need from me?" he asks with no clear expectation.

"The film," I smile, expecting him to know immediately what I'm referring to. Even with his face shrouded in cloth, I can still tell that he is shocked and uncomfortable with how much I know about him.

"How?--"

"Her father sent me to steal it from you."

"They know about the pictures?" he asks alarmingly and I shake my head to answer him. "Oh," he signs, dropping his gaze from me to the floor. "Why did he send you...and why did you agree? You're apparently not the most reputable associate."

"He obviously knows I'm the best for the job. And I'm taking this "job" because Stacy agreed to keep his nose out of my business from here on."

"Well you can have it," he says, reaching into a pocket sewn inside his pants. "I don't even know why I kept it. I never even developed them. They're just filled with bad memories."

He tosses the roll to me and I raise my hand to catch it. I can tell immediately that he already regrets giving it up so easily. "So you really did kill her," I confirm softly, staring at the film in my palm. "You don't seem like the killing type."

He nods his head. "I'm not."

I nod my head back and stare at the film again. "So what did it feel like when you raped her?"

"Excuse me?"

"You heard. When you raped Gwen Stacy, what did it feel like?"

"How could you ask that. It was terrible."

"You're lying," I chuckle non-chalantly. "You only say that now because she ended up getting killed. But what did it really feel like?" I lick my lips as I probe beneath him. "Were you turned on by her muffled scream under your clenched hand? Did you feel powerful while you held her to the ground and plunged into her? Did it feel good when she writhed and wiggled around your cock?"

"Stop it!" he demands inescapably. "It wasn't like that at all. Please, I don't want to remember this."

"Then why did you keep the film all this time, and so close to you too? Why didn't you get rid of it?"

"I...I don't know."

"Yes, you do," I shake my head at his denial. "Whether you'll admit it or not, you finally got what you wanted out of her before she died, didn't you? It felt great, didn't it? You've got to admit that."

For a moment he remains silent, either ignoring the question or considering the answer.

"Why are you doing this to me?" he finally asks.

"I'm just trying to make you accept the truth, Spider. If you can do that, then you can overcome the pain and guilt that comes from it...and then you can turn it into something else."

"What are you talking about?"

"I can show you my world," I whisper enchantingly past his ear. "In my world, your pain becomes your pleasure. All your guilt and your pain fade into joy as I punish you for your crimes. I would want to tie you up on a leash and be your master for a day. You would be my pet and I would be your owner. I'd whip you like you know you deserve and I'd punish you for all your bad deeds...and you'd love it. You'd love it and you'd thank me for giving you what you deserve. I'd make you face your guilt and you'd see your sins as what they really are. And at the end of the day, you'd forget about your crimes and all that would matter is the punishment."

If you let me, Spider, I can heal you. I can change you world."

Next Issue: Peter explores his new relationship with the Black Cat, while trouble at home emerges. Spider-Man is hounded by the Daily Bugle and also must face the vengeance of the Green Goblin.