The ranged half of the swarm — thinner, hungrier-looking, and it knows how to keep its distance. The Spitter turns infection into ammunition, hurling toxic projectiles from a swollen throat, a chest sac, or a fused arm-lance grown out of stolen tech. On its own it's a nuisance. Paired with a wave of Rippers, it's the reason you can't just hold a corner — it forces you to move, right into the claws.
