He tugs against Peter, still hanging on to Drake. His other arm moves, slowly, like a limb that belongs to a different body, like it belongs on a different species, a sluggish and elastic motion. It bends farther around his back than any solid arm would, the fingertips of Joe's ruined hand moving in twitches, spreading apart little by little to reveal an oozing pitch-black palm.

Then the arm, or Joe, or some combination of the two, strikes like a viper to try and seize Peter's face.