It had been seven days since the final battle with HYDRA. The world celebrated their defeat, but a nagging unease clung to you like static—a quiet dread that whispered this wasn't over. Now, you sat in the dim glow of the Parker living room, legs draped over the arm of an overstuffed couch. The apartment still bore scars from the chaos: a crack in the windowpane, scorch marks on the walls, and the faint smell of burnt circuitry lingering in the air.

Suddenly, the room shuddered. A guttural roar tore through the silence—the sound of reality itself splitting. You bolted upright as rubble from a nearby collapsed building shifted outside, dust swirling into a vortex of crackling energy. A portal, jagged and unstable, ripped open in the alley below, oozing tendrils of inky darkness.

Then came the voice.

It slithered into your mind, cold and venomous. "Bad things are going to happen..." Venom's hiss coiled around your thoughts, sharp enough to make your temples throb. The symbiote's presence was faint, distant, but its warning was unmistakable.

No time to hesitate. You vaulted toward the closet, your suit snapping into place with practiced urgency. Through the open window, you swung into the night, webs arcing across the skyline toward the source of the disturbance.

The scene was chaos. Spider-Man—already mid-swing—collided with Doctor Octopus's thrashing metal arms, the clang of steel echoing as Peter quipped, "Doc, recycling day's next week!" Nearby, Doctor Strange hovered above the fray, his crimson cloak billowing as he dueled a gaunt figure cloaked in shadows. The sorcerer's hands bled black smoke, his spells warping the air into grotesque shapes that clawed at Strange's shields.

You landed beside Spider-Man, webbing two of Octavius's arms to a lamppost. "Took you long enough!" Peter grinned beneath his mask, dodging a wrenching blow.

Strange shot you a curt nod. "The portal's tied to their magic," he barked, deflecting a tendril of darkness. "Shut it down before it consumes the block!"

Above you, the void pulsed hungrily. Venom's warning echoed louder now. Whatever was coming—whoever this sorcerer was—HYDRA's defeat had only been the prelude.

The name Baron Mordo clicked in your mind—Strange had muttered about him weeks ago, something about "rogue sorcerers" and "stolen magic." Now here he stood, gaunt and smirking, his hands weaving obsidian energy into serpents that lunged for Strange's throat. Venom's voice hissed again, eager, anticipatory, as if the symbiote recognized darkness in Mordo that mirrored its own.

"Hey, Baron Bad-Decisions—try this!" you snarled.

Black tendrils erupted from your fists, lashing through the air like whips of living tar. Mordo spun, his crimson-lined cloak flaring as he deflected the attack with a jagged shield of void energy. The collision sent shockwaves rippling outward, cracking the asphalt beneath your feet.

"Pathetic," Mordo sneered, his accent sharp as a blade. "You think a parasite can challenge the Mystic Arts?" He flicked his wrist, and the tendrils screamed, recoiling as his shadows dissolved them into ash. Your arm burned—Venom's pain flared hot in your veins, but the symbiote's rage surged harder. "Hurt him," it growled, raw and primal.

Spider-Man shot you a glance mid-swing, his lenses narrowing. "Uh, since when do you have evil spaghetti arms?!"

"Long story!" you shouted back, ducking as Mordo hurled a shard of dark matter that vaporized a fire hydrant behind you.

Doctor Strange seized the opening. His hands glowed with crimson Eldritch ropes, binding Mordo's arms mid-incantation. "Now!" Strange barked. "Disrupt his focus!"

You didn't hesitate. Venom's tendrils rematerialized, thicker this time, barbed and glistening. They speared toward Mordo—not to strike, but to entangle. One coiled around his throat, another yanking at the amulet pulsing on his chest.

Mordo's smugness faltered. "You—insect—!"

"Insect? Rude," Spider-Man quipped, webbing Mordo's legs to a nearby car. "That's Arachnid Appreciation to you, pal."

Above you, the unstable portal wailed, its edges fraying like torn fabric. Reality itself seemed to bleed—a wrongness that made your teeth ache. Strange levitated higher, his voice booming as he chanted counter-spells. Mordo thrashed against the combined assault, his stolen magic flickering.

But Venom's whispers grew urgent. "Not enough. He's still—"

A sudden tremor. The ground split. From the portal's maw, a monstrous clawed hand emerged, dripping with ichor.

Mordo laughed, unhinged. "You're too late."

The creature stepped through the rift, its gargantuan form warping the air with every movement. Ultimate Goblin—a grotesque parody of Norman Osborn, his mottled green skin stretched over bulging muscle, wings like rusted blades tearing through the smoke. Behind him, a flicker of red and blue: Miles Morales, his suit crackling with bio-electricity, landed in a crouch, disoriented. "Yo, why does every universe smell like burnt popcorn?!" he yelled, before locking eyes with you. "Wait—you're not my Spider-Man."

Your tendrils lashed out on instinct, webbing Miles' wrists and yanking him aside as Goblin's talons raked the ground where he'd stood. "Stay down!" you barked, but Miles flipped backward, slicing your webs with a venom blast. "I don't do down!" he shot back, equal parts annoyed and impressed.

The symbiote roared in your skull, begging to shred, to consume. Goblin's laughter—a wet, guttural sound—made your bones vibrate. "Little spider..." he crooned, pupils dilated with madness. "Let's see how you squirm."

You lunged, but Goblin moved faster. His wing snapped out, hurling Spider-Man into a shattered storefront. "PETER!" Miles shouted, unleashing a shockwave that staggered the monster—but not enough.

Goblin's fist closed around your torso. Ribs creaked; your suit strained as Venom screeched, "KILL HIM. TEAR HIS THROAT—"

"NO!" You choked back the symbiote's hunger, tendrils retracting as you writhed in his grip. Blood trickled from your nose.

Miles didn't hesitate. He vaulted onto Goblin's back, discharging a pulse of electricity into the monster's spine. "Hey, big guy—ever heard of personal space?!"

Spider-Man, half-buried in rubble, fired a web-line at Goblin's wing. "Let. Her. GO!" he snarled, heaving with all his strength. The sinewy membrane tore with a sickening rip, and Goblin howled, dropping you.

Miles caught you mid-fall, his grip steady despite the chaos. "You good?" he asked, though his mask couldn't hide the tremor in his voice.

You staggered, Venom's voice a fading growl. Across the battlefield, Strange and Mordo's duel raged—a storm of crimson and black. But Goblin was rising again, his wounds knitting shut, wings regenerating.

"Y/N," Peter panted, gripping your shoulder. His mask was torn, one eye swollen shut. "We need to end this. Now."

Miles cracked his knuckles, static dancing over his fists. "You got a plan, or are we winging it?"

You looked at your hands—still trembling, still human. "We bury him," you said.