But… It’s me! The real Spider-Man!

No one prevents me when I open the doors. With a low hum the flaps part to the sides, allowing the traitors to reach the target of their invasion.

The muzzles of several dozen guns stare me in the face, like the indifferent eyes of death itself. Behind these cruel, still cold eyes are soldiers hiding. Accustomed to brutal and dirty work, they are nevertheless visibly nervous. It is not every day you have to kill someone who only yesterday you called your God. Their excitement is not hidden from me. I can hear it in the beating of their hearts, in their nervous pacing and cautious breathing, as if they were afraid even to breathe the same air as me.

A little further away, behind the backs of their small armies, were the local rulers of destiny, with personal guards, of course. Those who felt entitled to decide my fate-to decide whether Peter Parker should live or die-the apostles of the Two-Minute God. But not all of them dared to honor me personally with their presence: I see only four. But don't naively assume that the absent ones are still faithful to their God; no, they simply chose not to risk taking the heat with someone else's hands: not to get themselves in trouble, but to wait for the more impulsive colleagues to deal with a common enemy.

Daisy, on the other hand, was not afraid to step forward. She, I suspect, was entrusted with the command of her forces by the traitor apostles. I guess they decided not to leave aside such a valuable and dangerous human resource as this woman is.

"Who are you?" said Brennan quickly, curtly, the words gushing out of her mouth like gunshots, "what are you?"

"How could it be... you made me yourself?" I speak sneeringly, and allow myself the slightest hint of a smile on my lips.

"You are not our God!" the elderly woman in the cramped gown protests vehemently, an outfit that suits neither the scene nor the action to be performed. One of the apostles, I suppose. Well, at least this one had the guts to come here in person, for which I am grateful.

"Not at all, I'm the God you deserve," I reply without much fervor.

"What are you hoping for? We're still stronger than you," the elder Carson asks with confidence, "you don't think those cowardly rats will stand up for you, do you?"

Having said that, she moved her cruel gaze to her daughter. "Away!" her eyes screamed, "Away, or die with him!"

She was not wrong in calling her daughter a cowardly rat. For, as rats should be, she herself and her inner circle were already rushing to be the first to flee from the sinking ship. Fine. I don't care about them or their loyalty.

The example of my brave guards was immediately followed by the non-combatants, who happened to be in the thick of the event. As a result, only a handful of people remained with me, a couple of female guards, among whom I found, to my surprise, and the one who provided me with clothes. Unexpected... but no matter. If they want to die with weapons in their hands in defense of their "God," that's their business, and their deaths don't upset me in the slightest, nor do their fanatical devotion move me.

"What are you waiting for? Finish him off!" With excitement, even a certain hysteria, the old apostle cries out. What attracts my attention: why such hysteria, even doom? But this is no time for idle speculation...

Carson Sr. nods briefly, looking at Brennan, who is clearly about to command, "Fire!"

But I'm faster.

There are no restrictions this time. No suppressors, no hostages, nothing to hold me back, and no need to wait for the Lizard serum to work. Nor do I need the serum itself.

I was with the nearest fighter before he could pull the trigger once. And she won't pull it again. I kicked the spirit out of the woman with a powerful blow to the stomach, and, without waiting for the others to get their sights on me, I rushed forward.

Those of the guards who dared to take my side fire back, creating a commotion. There aren't many of them, not enough to pose a real threat to the attackers, but enough to cause confusion in their actions. Beyond my will, I feel a slight tinge of gratitude for these men: their fanatical dedication allows me to act more freely. Even if they're not protecting Peter Parker, they're protecting their God.

A sudden flash of a sensation I'd forgotten about-an aching feeling in my back and a pulse in the back of my head that bordered on pain-warned me of mortal danger. Missed you, Spidey Sense.

I fall sideways, dissolving into the hustle and bustle of the battle, and the machine gun fire only impotently wounds the air and perhaps someone who might have been in the line of fire. But I don't care. There are no people here whose lives are worth defending.

Even without looking, I already know who the shooter is who almost hit me in the back - I can feel it. Their bullets, their evil intent, their hatred, their fear. What an intoxicating feeling!

I'm not giving Brennan the opportunity to attack me from behind again, so I dash at her myself. Daisy managed to draw her weapon and fire a few shots in my direction, but that never stopped me. Slipping a little to the side, dodging the trajectory of the bullets, and then soaring through the air in a long jump, catching the target, is a familiar thing to do.

I landed directly on Brennan's shoulders, using the momentum of the jump to drop her to the floor. She falls obediently onto her back, her helmet meeting the floor with a painful groan. Without much concern for the woman's comfort, I tear the helmet from her head, tearing the bindings apart with force.

"Bastard," the girl hisses in pain and anger, glaring at me with hateful eyes, "and what now? Kill me? You can not, you weakling!"

"You're so wrong..." I put my palm on Daisy's face, letting the hatred build up, "Say goodbye to your pretty face."

Again my gut warns me that someone intends to interrupt us at such an important moment. To the sound of tearing leather and Brennan's shrieks, I soar through the air, avoiding being caught in the crossfire.

But she was right. This was no time to be petty, and I wasn't going to spare anyone else's life. They came here to kill me... again. So, as they say, if you declare war, be prepared to die in war. With these thoughts in mind, I rush toward the apostles hiding behind their personal guards.

The first guard tries to hit me in the face with the forearm of her gun, but she might as well have attacked her own shadow. I don't bother with her anymore, I hit her confidently, for sure, and go straight to the next one. I jump up and glue my palm to the helmet of the machine gunner, and then I carelessly twist her neck, only the vertebrae of the dead woman crunching in my wake. Belatedly the machine guns begin to fire. The dashes of bullets pierce the air where I was a moment ago, but I'm no longer there. Three dozen feet and two corpses separated me from that spot.

As I started to kill... I borrowed a gun from the next victim, and, under cover of a woman who hadn't yet realized her imminent death, I unloaded the machine gun into the apostles' guards. I was perfectly capable of keeping it from scattering in a long burst, which I took advantage of, obliquely crossing out several lives.

No one even had time to fire back, making my human shield unnecessary. I had to move it myself from the camp of the temporarily alive to the abode of the untimely dead.

Yes, it's much quicker and easier that way. No need to worry that the perpetrator would die because I miscalculated my strength on impact, no fear that tomorrow Spider-Man would be declared a brutal killer. Only a slight regret-it's always unpleasant to kill people, but these just don't deserve to live.

The forces of the traitors are rapidly melting away, some, heartbroken, try to escape, taking the example of Mace Carson and her people, only they don't realize that the entire complex is already locked down.

"Did you think you had me surrounded?" I smirk at this picture, "except I'm the hunter here!"

Soon the moans of the wounded remain the predominant sound in the hall. In the heat of battle, I didn't even notice how I sent three of the apostles who had come for my soul to the other side. It was all because of the firearms. I certainly would have remembered them if I had only fought with my hands. The last one standing was that shrieking old woman. Somehow she didn't try to run away or put up any resistance. She just stood there with her head held high and her dry lips pressed into a thin line, watching me pick up someone's gun from the floor and point it at her face.

"That's it," I said as the body of the last apostle fell to the floor.