"What's wrong?" Hawk asked.
"You know I went to the lab yesterday morning, right?" Gwen said.
"Yeah."
He remembered—before heading to the library. He had assumed she was just checking in with Dr. Connors.
"Did something go wrong with the experiment?"
"No. The experiment didn't fail… but I heard there's a problem with the investors. You know Dr. Connors' research is jointly funded by Oscorp and the military, right?"
"You told me before."
"Well, the military pulled out." Gwen lowered her voice, leaning closer. "And since Connors' project has been going on for nearly two years with no results, even Oscorp's executives are running out of patience."
That was the truth about capital.
They'd invest because of a promising pitch, pour in money, even provide facilities. But if results didn't meet expectations, they'd cut you off without hesitation.
Cutting losses—that was the golden rule of capital.
Connors' regeneration research was no exception.
And when the military pulled its funding last month, citing "budget reallocations," Oscorp was forced to cover the gap—barely.
But Oscorp itself wasn't stable either.
Rumors were swirling: Norman Osborn, who had been bedridden with a mysterious illness, was close to death.
The proof? His son, Harry Osborn, had returned from England this summer and—under the guidance of Norman's private secretary, Felicia Hardy—begun learning company affairs.
That was a clear sign of succession.
And whenever old kings fell, ambitious men scrambled to carve their piece.
In that atmosphere, trimming unprofitable projects was inevitable. Connors' lab, already abandoned by the military, was first on the chopping block.
"Yes. They've already downsized his staff," Gwen said quietly. "Five researchers were dismissed. Technically, I should've been too… but since I'm just work-study, I'm cheap labor. And when I saw Dr. Connors yesterday, he didn't seem half as happy as you described. That's why your phone call surprised me."
Hawk shrugged. "Well, he sounded excited when I talked to him. Who knows if it'll work out."
"I hope it does," Gwen sighed.
They dropped the subject there.
But for Dr. Connors himself, the topic was far from over.
At that very moment, he was sitting in his office, facing a well-dressed corporate envoy delivering the board's newest decree.
"Doctor, have you decided?" the man asked.
"I don't understand."
"You do." The middle-aged executive's smile was polite, almost friendly. "The military's withdrawal means one thing. The board nearly pulled the plug as well—but your latest mouse trial bought you time. Only time."
Connors frowned. "So what's their decision?"
"Human trials."
"What?"
Connors shot to his feet, eyes wide. "I only just extracted what might be a viable serum from a single mutant mouse. It hasn't even been validated! Jumping straight to humans is reckless. And where would we even find volunteers?"
The man shrugged. "Military hospitals are full of test subjects. Just call it a vaccine trial."
He said it casually, as if discussing office furniture.
To him—and to the system he represented—the poor weren't people. They were resources.
Connors was appalled. "No. I refuse."
"Time isn't on your side, Doctor. Or ours."
"Ours?"
"You don't need to know more. Just understand—the board believes this is for your own good. Specialists will handle the details. If it fails, you can claim ignorance. I'm not here to negotiate, Doctor. I'm here to notify you."
With that, the man turned on his heel and left.
Connors slumped into his chair, frozen.
Yes, Norman Osborn's mysterious illness had been the true reason this lab was created—to find a cure for the Osborn patriarch.
And with Norman's death looming, the board was desperate. They weren't just pushing Connors forward—they were pushing themselves, ensuring their own survival when the power shift came.
Capital loved stability. It thrived on it.
But Connors wasn't capital.
He was just a scientist.
Now he sat in silence, staring blankly ahead.
Motionless.
...
(End of Chapter)
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