Spider-Man froze mid-swing, his senses on high alert, the familiar hum of his spider-sense intensifying to a deafening crackle as he landed atop the rooftop. His eyes scanned the darkened expanse, quickly locking onto the crimson streak smeared across the rooftop's edge, a stark contrast against the neon-lit city below. Every instinct screamed that something was terribly wrong.

Scarlet Spider, Iron Spider, and Kid Arachnid landed beside him, their movements synchronized as their suits glinted, catching the fractured light that danced across the city skyline. The sudden stillness settled over them, as if the world was holding its breath. Peter's gaze flickered from the trail of blood to his comrades, his mind racing.

Without a word, he crouched, his gloved fingers brushing against the slick, viscous substance. The moment his skin made contact, the blood sizzled and smoked—an acrid scent filling the air, sharp and dangerous. His hand recoiled instinctively, the heat of it searing into the fibers of his suit. His breath hitched in his chest.

"Poisonous blood," Peter hissed, his voice strained with the weight of the discovery. His eyes flicked up, his pulse hammering in his ears as he turned to Iron Spider, who was already surveying the scene, his holographic display illuminating the darkened roof with a sickly green glow. The hum of the tech vibrated in the air, almost as if it too could sense the gravity of the situation.

Iron Spider's voice broke through the heavy silence, quieter than usual. "It's... Y/N's." The words hung in the air like a death sentence.

The color drained from Scarlet Spider's face as he recoiled, muttering a curse under his breath. Kid Arachnid's lenses widened in shock, his voice trembling as the pieces began to fall into place. "But that means—"

Peter's fists clenched, trembling as the magnitude of the situation hit him. His jaw tightened, the words coming out in a strained growl. "It means they're losing. Fast."

The city around them seemed to pulse with a deep, malevolent energy, the skyline flickering erratically as if in response to the storm that was building above them. Each of them could feel it—racing hearts, the air thick with the weight of impending chaos. And in that moment, the world felt too small. Too fragile. The stakes had just escalated beyond anything they'd ever faced.

Scarlet Spider shouldered past the others, his mask contorting into a familiar scowl—a twisted thing that spoke volumes of impatience and barely restrained aggression. "Enough chatter—let's find her then," he snarled, the gravel of his voice vibrating through the thick, blood-soaked air. His gloved fists clenched, fingers digging into his palms as his gaze swept across the rooftop, scanning for any sign of where the blood trail had come from. Every movement was calculated, the sharp tension in his stance betraying the urgency that pulsed beneath his skin. The rapid clicking of his reinforced web-shooters adjusting was almost imperceptible, but to anyone who knew him, it was a clear sign—he was already calculating the quickest route to violence. "Before whatever did this decides to finish the job."

The wind, tinged with neon-lit electric buzz, tugged at the edges of his tattered hood, casting the space around him into chaotic shadows. Each muscle in his body was coiled, ready to spring into action—a predator on the hunt, poised to strike. The others, too, were in sync, their movements fluid and practiced, as they followed the bloody trail's grim path. Web-shooters hissed with every push of a button, scarlet tendrils tearing through the air like phantom threads of fate, and together, they followed the trail of blood—macabre breadcrumbs leading deeper into the city's underbelly.

It led them to a dead-end alley, suffocating with the smell of rust, decay, and the faintly metallic tang of something older—more sinister. Neon signs flickered above them like dying stars, casting eerie glows that bathed the alley in cold, fractured light. But what awaited them wasn't Venom's hulking, shadow-drenched form. No. Instead, they found Deadpool—slumped across a dumpster, his crimson and black suit an absurd clash against the grime and detritus of the street.

"Deadpool," Spider-Man ground out, his boots scraping against the cracked pavement as he landed with a heavy thud. The impact reverberated through the alley, sending a small cloud of dust into the air. He nudged the mercenary's limp form with his boot, his voice tight with exasperation and concern. "What the hell did you do this time?"

Deadpool stirred with a theatrical groan, his head rolling lazily to the side. His white lenses flicked open, unfocused, then rolled back in exaggerated indifference. "Ughhh, is it morning already?" he drawled, the words muffled by the dented metal beneath him. "Did someone order a merc with a—" His voice faltered as a sharp, wet cough split the air, and he rolled to his back, revealing the gory truth—a jagged, gaping wound across his torso. But it wasn't blood. No, the substance that oozed from the cut was a glowing pink sludge, faintly luminescent, slick and alien.

Scarlet Spider's eyes narrowed, his stomach sinking with a sickening certainty. "That's not Y/N's blood."

Deadpool's head lolled to the side, a sloppy grin breaking through his mask's usual quirkiness. "Nope!" he chirped, popping the 'p' in a gleeful, manic tone as he wagged a finger. "That's the other guy's problem. Me? I'm just here for the moral support... and maybe a discount chimichanga."

Kid Arachnid's lenses flashed with anger and confusion. "Did you see her? Did you fight her?" His voice cracked like a whip, raw and jagged, sharper than anything the young hero had ever sounded. The sudden edge in Miles' tone hit Peter like a gut punch. When had Morales, the usually upbeat and optimistic kid, started sounding so... broken?

Deadpool hauled himself upright, swaying like a marionette whose strings had been pulled too tight. He only managed to stay vertical when Iron Spider, with a quiet, practiced motion, steadied him with a firm, gauntleted grip. The armored hero's voice was flat, dispassionate, even as he observed the mercenary's condition. "You should get this checked out, sir."

Deadpool waved off the concern with a casual flick of his hand. "Meh, I've popped stitches for worse," he muttered, his voice laced with the same flippant bravado that always seemed to define him. But then, for the first time, his gaze hardened—his usual manic energy flickering out like a dying light. His eyes locked onto Miles, and his voice shifted, shedding its erratic edge, becoming something raw and heavy, laden with a sincerity that no one had expected.

"Yeah, we fought," Deadpool said, his tone quieter now, almost regretful. He jabbed a thumb toward the glowing wound on his side. "She's the one who gave me this... thing." His eyes momentarily lost focus, the bravado crumbling, leaving only a raw, jagged pain behind. "Kept ranting about how she 'wasn't Y/N anymore.'"

The words hung in the air, thick and suffocating. Deadpool's shoulders slumped forward, his frame looking small and fragile in the face of the truth. He was no longer the unkillable mercenary; he was just a man, a broken, beaten figure against the grim backdrop of the alley.

"I... couldn't stop her."

The admission hit like a grenade without its pin, a truth that seemed impossible to process. The weight of it sank in, settling heavily on everyone's chest. Y/N was no longer the person they knew. She was lost, consumed by something darker, something beyond their reach—and there was nothing they could do to stop it.