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The city chokes under a sickly green haze, its skyline punctured by screams and the guttural snarls of the undead. Spider-Man catapults through the chaos, web-shooters hissing as he arcs above crumbling rooftops. Below, streets swarm with shambling corpses—former teachers, shopkeepers, neighbors—now ravenous monsters with glowing eyes and jagged teeth. A thwip echoes as he slings a web-grenade into a horde, the explosive gel igniting in a burst of searing light, reducing decayed flesh to ash. He spins midair, dodging a hurled taxi, then retaliates with a kinetic web-net that pins three zombies to a billboard. "Not today, Rotbrains," he mutters, launching toward a overrun subway entrance where survivors huddle. His reflexes blur: a web-zip line evacuates a child clutched by a skeletal claw, a ricochet web-shot detonates a gas main beneath a advancing mob. Every tendon burns, but he pushes harder—wall-running to dropkick a lumbering abomination off a fire escape, snagging a dropped shotgun mid-swing to blast a path through the swarm. This isn't just webs and quips anymore. It's arteries of webbing staunching bites on a paramedic's arm, it's evacuating a nursery before the horde smells fear, it's his mask cracked and bloodied as he stands atop a trembling bus, shouting, "Behind me! Now!" The city's heartbeat falters, but Spider-Man? He swings faster.
