Under the force of gravity, Peter plummeted at high speed.
The howling wind and sharp whistling pierced his eardrums.
Cars that originally looked the size of matchboxes swelled in size as he plunged downward at breakneck speed.
The changing scenery of the city rushed into his view as he descended through the altitudes.
He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and ignored the slight dizziness brought on by the high-speed fall.
Relaxing his whole body and holding his breath, he focused his mind on the virus within him.
The Blacklight Virus fused with his blood welled up, a black-and-red substance that covered the surface of his skin, forming a faint, shallow layer.
He tried his best not to breathe through his nose, using the Blacklight Virus inside his body to respire instead.
The evolved cells within him, having devoured flesh and blood, were massive, and to keep their energy as active as possible, they needed to maintain motility.
As he shut down his body's respiratory system, the Blacklight Virus began to breathe autonomously to maintain its activity.
Moreover, due to the high-speed descent and the need to adapt to this state of motion, the virus began releasing trace amounts of high-pressure gas, controlling the host to glide forward while maintaining bodily equilibrium.
Having stopped his fall, Peter glided through the high altitude like Batman with wings spread wide.
Adapting to the changes in his body, he tried to control himself while losing altitude.
Experiencing "flight" at high altitude for the first time without any tools, a strange feeling suddenly welled up inside him.
It felt as though his current self had transcended the level of a "human" and become an entirely different species.
Before this bizarre sensation could fade from his heart, a sudden gale blew through the air.
The abrupt wind disrupted the equilibrium Peter had been maintaining.
It made it impossible for him to sustain his gliding posture, sending him tumbling forward.
"Ugh...!"
Tumbling in the high air, he immediately took self-rescue measures.
"Whoosh!"
He shot black Webbing from both hands toward the tall buildings on either side.
The Webbing, formed by cellular mutation induced by the virus, accurately struck a nearby skyscraper.
Clutching the Webbing with one hand, he forcefully pulled his body toward the high-rise, gliding through the high altitude like a spider.
With a muffled "bang," his body slammed against the building's exterior wall.
After halting his fall, he gripped a protrusion on the building dozens of meters up, pressed his back against the wall, and retracted the Webbing extending from his body to prevent leaving any traces that could cause infection.
Looking down, despite the pedestrians and cars on the street appearing exceptionally tiny, they were crystal clear through his extraordinary vision.
Exhaling a breath, he turned around and cast his gaze upon the glass embedded in the wall before him.
The dark, shimmering glass clearly reflected his appearance.
The black Spider Mask emitted a cold sheen, and the white eye lenses were striking.
After staring at the person in the reflection for a moment, he raised his head and looked toward the sky.
Dark clouds hung low, obscuring the entire sky.
Fine, hair-like raindrops drifted down from above.
...
"It's raining?"
Down below the building where Peter was, inside a speeding police car, George Stacy held out his hand to catch a few raindrops and spoke to his partner beside him.
The two of them were driving their police car toward Hell's Kitchen.
"You just spoke with your daughter on the phone, but your tone was just like interrogating a suspect, George."
His partner, focused on driving, kept his eyes on the road ahead as he spoke to George.
"Really? I've tried changing the way I talk, but..."
George Stacy, who was organizing his handgun, shook his head and said, "In the end, I found out I'm just not the kind of person who easily accommodates others."
"But we have to draw a line between work and life. Bringing your work persona into your family life will just make a total mess of things, won't it? You need to try changing your lifestyle, George; you always push yourself way too hard."
His Black partner frowned slightly because the car was filled with the scent of gun oil. "Also, George, do you mind not fiddling with your pistol inside the cruiser?"
"Sorry, Jeff. This gun has been with me for years, and the magazine always acts up. I have to check it often to make sure it doesn't fail me when I'm firing bullets at criminals."
George didn't follow up on his partner Jeff's topic about family.
He flicked the Glock 45 in his hand toward him and then put it away.
After driving a distance, the police car entered the Hell's Kitchen neighborhood.
The roads here crisscrossed like a web spun by a drunk spider.
Furthermore, they were full of potholes where even a small gust of wind kicked up dust, making it feel as if one had arrived on the surface of the moon.
The two parked their police car in an alley beside a dry cleaner, then stepped out and walked inside.
Half an hour ago, someone called the police reporting that strange noises kept coming from the apartment of a neighbor who hadn't been seen in a long time, which was why George and his partner had come to investigate.
The two arrived in front of room 1450 on Wisteria Street, knocked on the door, and received no response.
With a gentle push, the door swung open automatically with a creak.
After exchanging a brief glance, the two entered the room.
Turning on the lights, everything in the living room came into view.
The furnishings in the living room were neat and tasteful, and the woolen carpet gave off the smell of a brand-new item.
Although everything seemed normal, George smelled a scent that made him uneasy.
It felt like the scent of fresh grass, yet also like the stench of a dried-up sewer ravaged by bacteria and bugs for days.
This smell of utter stagnation and decay made George's entire body tense up.
He drew his handgun and moved forward along the carpet, his partner following closely behind him with cautious steps.
Following the odor, the two reached the second-floor master bathroom.
The shower curtain was pulled tightly shut, and the toilet lid was closed, with a small glass tube resting on top of it, one end of its tube charred and completely blackened.
A dark, shadowy lump loomed vaguely behind the shower curtain.
George took a deep breath, reached out, and jerked the curtain wide open.
A person was shockingly lying in the bathtub!
No, to be precise, it wasn't a human being at all—just an empty skin.
This appeared to be the skin of a woman, with white flesh hanging loosely, paired with yellow hair on the face, creating a sensation of extreme eeriness.
"God! What the hell is this?"
Jeff stared wide-eyed, a look of terror on his face.
"An unfortunate woman."
George put away his handgun and shrugged.
After reporting their discovery to headquarters via radio, he briefly inspected the state of the skin.
"Just like the previous cases, the victim's skin has no damage at all; it looks as if it just peeled off naturally, or... as if the human body fell into a dissolving liquid, liquefying all the other organs while leaving only the skin tissue behind."
George spoke to his partner with a grave expression.
Jeff didn't speak; he still hadn't recovered his wits from the gruesome sight before him.
Swallowing hard, Jeff looked with trepidation at the human skin "lying" in the bathtub.
He discovered that the skin was actually beginning to move.
And the movements were growing larger and larger!