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With the Hell Witch's departure—
Instantly, The space beneath the Manhattan Bridge was plunged back into darkness.
But whether for Hawk or for Peter, the darkness was irrelevant. They could both still see as clearly as if it were day.
Peter stared at the spot where the witch had vanished, his mouth slightly agape.
"She's gone?"
"Yes."
"So..."
"Leave it," Hawk cut in. "It's Osborn family business."
"Right..." Peter thought back to how easily the witch had bound him, a shiver of lingering fear running through him as he looked at Hawk. "Thanks, Hawk."
"Don't mention it. I'm heading out. You sticking around?"
"Nah," Peter shook his head. "I'm heading home."
Hawk gave him a nod and a small wave, then vanished in an instant.
Peter watched him go, then shot a web and swung off into the night, leaving behind nothing but a single, gibbering madman pinned to the bridge's stone support.
...
A short while later, Hawk was home.
He took another quick shower, then lay down on his bed, staring at the ceiling as he replayed the image of the Hell Witch vanishing without another word.
He had been planning to get her talking, to see if he could learn the location of Hell's gate from her.
But—
Witches, as it turns out, are predictably aloof.
Whatever. It's too soon to be thinking about Hell anyway. The Reality Stone has to be the priority.
With that thought, Hawk closed his eyes, sinking his consciousness back into his Cosmo, continuing the slow, arduous process of reaching for the Sixth Sense.
...
When Harry Osborn first passed away, the news had dominated the headlines of every major media outlet in New York.
But the world moves on.
It was just like with Tony Stark. Since his dramatic battle last Christmas, news about him had all but vanished from the papers.
Harry Osborn was no different.
After the initial media frenzy, after the funeral and the public reading of his notarized will, the stories had dwindled.
Wall Street's attention had shifted to his successor, the new CEO of Oscorp Industries: Felicia Hardy.
Interestingly, the moment the news of her inheritance broke, Oscorp's stock not only stopped its freefall but began to rapidly rebound.
As one Wall Street analyst put it, "Felicia Hardy is a known quantity. She started as Norman Osborn's executive assistant, effectively ran the company during his illness, and then continued to manage it alongside Harry. Now, she's in charge. Investors like that kind of stability."
Her career trajectory reminded many of another famous executive.
The CEO of Stark Industries—Pepper Potts.
A few days later, the investors had even given Ms. Hardy a nickname.
"The Black Cat."
"Where did that come from?"
It was the day before their trip to London. Hawk, Gwen, Peter, and Mary Jane were gathered at a cafe, finalizing their plans and catching up on the latest gossip.
Mostly, it was Mary Jane doing the talking. After all, her title of "Gossip Queen" wasn't just for show.
MJ explained. "Apparently, Felicia owns a black cat. A really beautiful one. The name just kind of stuck."
"A black cat..." Gwen's eyes widened in recognition. "You know, when I was an intern at Oscorp, I remember seeing a black cat around the labs. I always thought it belonged to the security department."
After all, their lab was full of mice. It had seemed logical.
She'd often seen it prowling the hallway outside their lab, a sleek, silent shadow. She had just assumed it was there for pest control.
She never imagined it belonged to Felicia.
"Oh, right." Mary Jane smiled, her eyes lighting up as she turned to Gwen. "Do you remember at the funeral, those guys Felicia had thrown out? The ones who were probably Harry's uncles?"
Gwen nodded. "Yeah, what about them?"
"They sued to have the Will overturned. The court refused to hear the case."
"It'd be weird if they did," Gwen said, rolling her eyes. "Harry was of sound mind when he wrote it. He had a video recording, and a lawyer from a major firm was present. No judge in their right mind would even hear that case. They'd be a laughingstock."
Mary Jane shrugged. "That's not even the best part. Apparently, the second uncle, the one who was making the most noise? He was just diagnosed with the family's genetic disease."
Gwen's eyes widened.
Across the table, Hawk and Peter exchanged a quick look.
Hawk gave a subtle shake of his head.
It was the same as before. This was a private matter between the Hell Witch and the Osborn family. There was no need for them to get involved.
If Harry were still alive, Peter might have stepped in.
But Harry was gone.
And besides Harry, Peter didn't really know any of the other Osborns, and it wasn't likely they'd appreciate his help anyway.
Peter understood Hawk's signal and said nothing.
Time flew by as the girls finalized the itinerary. By the time Hawk and Gwen got back to the Stacy's apartment, it was already six o'clock.
Helen had dinner ready.
The scene was a familiar one.
The same people.
The classic lemon sea bass was on the menu.
Helen, with her "I just love my son-in-law" smile—and George, with his "I'm going to kill my son-in-law" scowl.
Gwen's two little brothers were as energetic and mischievous as ever.
Hawk looked at the scene, then at Gwen, who was watching her family with a happy, contented smile of her own. And in that moment, an image flashed in his mind:
Electro, the man he had killed with a single punch.
The power plant...
It finally clicked. He finally understood the source of the immense, overwhelming relief he had felt in that moment.
...
After dinner, Hawk drove back to his house.
He parked in the garage, walked into the living room, and immediately saw it: a ball of blue flame, hovering in front of the fireplace.
The next second, the flame coalesced into a familiar form. The Hell Witch.
Hawk tossed his keys into the decorative fruit bowl Gwen had bought and walked toward the sofa.
The witch's voice was the same ghostly whisper as before.
"Thank you."
"..."
So, she finally realized I could have killed her back then.
Hawk thought to himself. He just smiled and got straight to the point. "Can you tell me where the entrance to Hell is?"
The witch paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was a strange, layered chorus of different women—some old, some young, their personalities clashing and merging.
"The gateway to Hell has been sealed."
"It happened a while ago."
"We heard Mephisto... got his ass kicked."
"And then he sealed the entrance."
"..."
Hawk listened to the cacophony of voices, a curious look on his face.
The Witch's voice returned to a single, calm whisper. "I apologize. We were all burned together. Our souls are intertwined. We cannot forgive, so we seek vengeance."
"Understood." Hawk nodded. "An eye for an eye. Your revenge has nothing to do with me. I won't interfere."
The Hell Witch thanked him again.
Hawk steered the conversation back to the main topic. "You said the gateway to Hell is closed?"
Well, I'll be damned.
So Mephisto is all talk?
The Hell Witch explained, "Apparently, Mephisto came to Earth a while ago, but he was discovered by the guardian of the Kamar-Taj, who beat him senseless. After he went back, Mephisto sealed the gate."
Kamar-Taj.
Guardian.
The Ancient One??
Hawk drew in a sharp breath. "The Ancient One didn't kill him, did she?"
The witch shook her head. "Mephisto is the sovereign of Hell. As long as Hell exists, he cannot truly die."
Hawk let out a breath of relief. "Can you tell when the gateway will reopen?"
"Yes."
"Then do me a favor. Let me know when it does. I have business in Hell."
"I will."
"Thank you."
"You are welcome."
The Witch held his gaze for a long, silent moment, then dissolved back into a ball of blue flame and disappeared into the fireplace.
With a soft poof, the flame vanished, and the living room was plunged into darkness.
Hawk turned and started up the stairs to his bedroom.
Wait.
He suddenly stopped, blinking.
Mephisto got beaten up by the Ancient One?
That doesn't seem right. Mephisto is a God. As powerful as the Ancient One is, she's not a god.
Oh, right.
The Ancient One has the Time Stone.
Hawk let out a short, surprised laugh and shook his head.
Whatever. Right now, the Reality Stone is what matters most.
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