Night fell over New York, turning the towering skyline into a grid of shimmering light. But in the sub-levels of Oscorp Tower, a very different scene unfolded.
Intense, scorching pain spread through Max Dillon's body, ripping him from a chaotic unconsciousness. His first clear sensation was agony, the second was sound—voices nearby.
"Burn this guy's body. We follow protocol, and our mission is complete. Corpse disposal, level six biohazard," a gruff voice instructed.
"How tragic. His face is unrecognizable, his whole body is charred. I heard he was the quiet one, never caused trouble," the second person murmured, sounding slightly disturbed.
Max forced his eyes open, seeing only blurry figures, two dark shapes moving toward him. He realized they were lifting him onto a gurney. As they moved, a primal surge of panic and rage gave him a burst of strength. He didn't speak. He simply lashed out, reaching a shaky, blackened hand and grabbing one of the men's forearms.
The employee, startled and horrified, quickly shook off the contact as if touched by a ghost and recoiled, stumbling away.
"What the hell?"
"What happened? Did you just drop him?"
"No! He just grabbed my hand! He's… alive again," the man stammered, his voice climbing into a scream.
"How is that possible? He's been dead for twenty-four hours!"
Suddenly, the residual electricity in the sterile room began to behave erratically. The fluorescent lights above flickered violently, humming and buzzing as if a powerful, invisible magnet was drawing all the ambient energy inward. Both men panicked, convinced they were witnessing something deeply unholy or an industrial haunting.
The next moment, Max sat up, his movements stiff and jerky. He looked down at his own form. His body had fundamentally changed. A layer of charred, brittle substance, like hardened charcoal, flaked and fell away. Beneath the dead skin, he saw his arm—it was strangely translucent, and beneath the skin, faint blue energy was beginning to glow and crackle.
The sight of his grotesque transformation triggered a flood of agonizing memories: the slippery floor, the catastrophic fall, the frenzy of mutated eels, and the searing, multi-gigawatt shock that had been his birthday present.
The painful memory caused a spontaneous, powerful electrical discharge. Max erupted with a pulse of raw power. Simultaneously, he felt a powerful, instinctive pull. The ambient electricity in the air, the flickering lights, the grounded pipes—it all surged toward him, replenishing his spent reserves. With this slight replenishment, he felt a fleeting moment of recovery, a whisper of strength.
"Power... I need more power," Max whispered, his voice a dry, echoing rasp.
Shakily, he climbed down from the gurney. He found a discarded, dark blue hoodie, pulled the hood over his glowing head, and shambled out of the unauthorized morgue.
Once on the street level, the feeling intensified. The city's electrical grid was a vast, open buffet. Max could feel the electricity flowing through every conduit—the streetlights, the traffic signals, the car batteries. More than just feeling it, he could absorb it.
He chose a simple streetlamp pole, placed his hand on the metal, and focused. A blue glow radiated from his palm. The streetlamp immediately dimmed and died. The parked cars nearby sputtered. Max felt a satisfying, restorative jolt of energy.
Max, incredibly weak and driven by the biological imperative for power, became totally immersed in this process, a silent, ravenous electrical vampire. He continued forward, draining every light source he passed.
Soon, an entire block plunged into darkness. All the streetlights on the avenue went out, and the electricity in nearby apartment buildings was momentarily absorbed, leaving only emergency lights sputtering. The affected area began to spread like an inky stain on the canvas of the city.
Miles away, Peter Parker was patrolling, swinging across the rooftops, his internal radar constantly scanning for signs of trouble or any news about Max Dillon. He was looking for a costumed villain, not a spreading blackout. He felt increasingly anxious about the warning Su Yi had given him, but found no trace of his electric fan.
Suddenly, Peter noticed the distant, spreading shadow. A massive, growing section of the city had plunged into unnatural darkness.
"What happened? A localized power grid failure?" Peter muttered to himself.
He knew something was immediately wrong. Since Tony Stark's entry into the power industry, grid failures had become rare anomalies. An expanding area of darkness like this indicated a specific, active cause.
Swinging over, Peter constantly scanned the streets, watching the affected area spread. If this continued, it would inevitably reach Times Square, the heart of New York's electrical spectacle. It was late, but Times Square was still incredibly bustling, a massive crowd illuminated by millions of watts of advertising and light.
Max, guided by the immense hum and flow of the energy, arrived at Times Square. It was a sensory overload—a literal ocean of electricity. He could feel the large, powerful currents running through the underground cables, a vast, endless supply right beneath his feet. He became consumed by this single, primal thought: absorb, replenish, survive.
Driven by this hunger, Max knelt directly on the ground near a maintenance access point, preparing to dig out the main feeder cables and gorge himself on the raw energy.
His abnormal behavior—a dark, hunched figure clawing at the street—attracted the attention of nearby pedestrians.
"Hey, buddy, what are you doing?" a tourist called out.
Max ignored them, his focus absolute. He used his newly enhanced strength to pry open the heavy metal ground grating. The exposed cables were thick, humming with power, an infinite meal right before his eyes.
"Hey! Get away from there!" A local worker yelled, rushing over. "There are live cables down there! It's incredibly dangerous and critical infrastructure, you can't—"
Max was interrupted again. The rage he had suppressed for decades—the feeling of being ignored, dismissed, and now physically prevented from survival—boiled over. He looked up, glaring at the man, his eyes flashing with a fierce, electric-blue light that was clearly visible in the reflected light of the remaining screens.
The worker who had tried to stop him was immediately terrified. That face, dimly translucent and faintly glowing, was inhuman.
"Monster! Get back!"
Max ignored the fear and the label, reaching his bare hand toward the cable bundle. The moment his skin touched the sheathing, a massive, satisfying surge of electricity flowed into his body. He felt stronger, more stable.
His act of draining power, however, began to affect the surrounding area. Screens started sputtering, lights dimmed dramatically, and the massive billboards began to flicker off. The chaos caused the people in the square to realize something was deeply wrong.
A law enforcement officer patrolling nearby noticed the commotion and approached, hand on his sidearm.
"You, I said you can't do that! Get away from there, or I'll use force!"
Max, enraged at being interrupted yet again, focused his anger and raised his hand. A bright, sizzling blast of pure electric current shot out, aimed directly at the officer.
Fortunately, Peter Parker arrived at that very instant. He saw the flash of blue electricity and recognized the immediate danger. With a burst of speed and a well-aimed web line, he pulled the law enforcement officer away from the blast zone. The electric attack ultimately hit a concrete wall behind, leaving a charred scar, but harming no one else.
Peter landed near the cable access point and looked at the glowing figure in the hoodie. He recognized the shape and the quiet desperation in the eyes, even through the electrical distortion.
"Max?"
Max saw the red and blue suit—his idol, Spider-Man. The sight momentarily cut through his electrical hunger, pulling him back to a sliver of his former self.
"Spider-Man!" Max exclaimed, his voice crackling with raw energy.
"What are you doing, Max? Why are you attacking innocent people?" Peter demanded, trying to keep his voice calm but firm.
Max, instantly feeling shame and panic at being scolded by his hero, quickly explained. "I… I don't know what's wrong with me, Spidey! I feel so hungry, and this electricity… it's like my only food. He wanted to stop me, and I just got so angry…"
Peter could see that Max was genuinely unstable, surrounded by a dangerous, palpable aura of static electricity. He knew that any physical contact could be lethal.
"Max, calm down. The electricity on you is very dangerous. Can you control it? I think we should leave here first, and then find a secluded place to talk slowly," Peter suggested, trying to de-escalate.
Max, overwhelmed by his own transformation, could only shake his head. "I don't know how to control it! It's just… me now."
Peter, realizing the immediate danger to the public, quickly started clearing the area. "Hey, everyone, please leave here immediately! There might be a power surge, it's not safe!"
Spider-Man's reputation was strong enough that the crowds began to heed his warning, gradually retreating a dozen meters away, creating a perimeter.
However, a vocal few remained, their attention fixed entirely on the blue-glowing Max.
"Dangerous? Is it that monster?"
"Spider-Man, eliminate this freak! Quick, apprehend him!"
Max heard the people around him evaluating him, labeling him, and instantly elevating Spider-Man while condemning him. The jealousy that had simmered for years—the feeling of being constantly overlooked, the man who was nothing, versus the hero who was everything—began to burn with a devastating, electrical intensity.