"So, those shareholders are after our super-soldier project," John stated, his voice carrying the flat certainty of someone who'd analyzed the situation from every angle.
The penthouse office felt heavy with late-night tension, the air conditioning humming softly as it cycled filtered air through the expansive space. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city sprawled in all directions like a circuit board of lights, each gleaming point representing lives and ambitions that seemed distant from the corporate machinations being discussed forty stories above the street.
"That's it? It's so complicated," Harry sighed, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair and leaving it slightly disheveled—a rare crack in his usually immaculate appearance. "I thought they actually wanted to check the accounts or review our quarterly projections." He paused, then straightened up with a sudden shift in demeanor that made John's enhanced senses pick up elevated heart rate and adrenaline markers. "So, what's the plan? Do we... deal with them?"
Harry stood beside John and made a sharp gesture across his neck, the motion quick and decisive. His eyes held a glint that spoke of too many late nights watching crime dramas and reading corporate thriller novels.
John just stared at him through his helmet's optical sensors, the silence stretching long enough to become uncomfortable. The city lights reflected off his armored surface created dancing patterns on the office walls.
"Who did you learn that from?" John finally asked, his voice carrying a mixture of amusement and genuine concern.
Harry shrank back, his confidence deflating like a punctured balloon as heat rose in his cheeks. "I don't know, man. Doesn't this whole scene feel like something out of a comic book?" He gestured around the dimly lit office, with its expensive mahogany furniture and panoramic view that screamed executive power.
John followed his gaze, taking in the dramatic lighting, the expensive art on the walls, and Harry's brooding silhouette against the city backdrop. With his sullen expression and expensive suit, Harry did indeed look like a loyal sidekick in some corporate conspiracy thriller. The whole setup really did resemble a scene where two business magnates might discuss physically eliminating troublesome competitors.
Wait, that's not what we're talking about at all, John thought, mentally shaking himself out of the dramatic atmosphere that seemed to permeate everything about Oscorp Tower after midnight.
"Read fewer comics, Harry," he said, his tone carrying gentle exasperation. "And we can't just 'deal with them' in the way you're suggesting. Besides, a financial audit is the last thing they want. Their books are probably a lot dirtier than ours ever were. If we actually pushed for a full external audit, they'd be the ones panicking about what might be discovered."
The revelation seemed to surprise Harry, his eyebrows rising as he considered the implications. "So we just ignore them?"
"That won't work either," John said, moving to the window where he could see the late-night traffic flowing through the streets below like blood through arteries. "If they unite to remove you from your CEO position, it'll be a huge headache for all of us. Corporate politics can be more dangerous than street crime when handled incorrectly."
He turned back to Harry, his armored form casting long shadows across the polished floor. "Find a time to hold a shareholders' meeting. Peter and I will show up as special consultants. It's time to give them a wake-up call about what they're really dealing with. They want a piece of every profitable pie, but they're not afraid of getting a serious stomachache."
"Okay," Harry said, and there was a determined glint in his eye that reminded John of Norman Osborn in his more ruthless moments. "I'll arrange it as soon as possible."
The shareholders were, indeed, intensely interested in the new collaborative project between Oscorp and the U.S. military. Through their various intelligence networks—corporate spies, military contractors, and well-placed sources in the Pentagon—they had heard tantalizing whispers that the military was not just satisfied but ecstatic with the preliminary results.
Yet unlike previous Oscorp military contracts, particularly the failed human enhancement project that had cost the company millions and nearly destroyed several careers, they had been completely shut out from this new venture. No briefings, no progress reports, no opportunities to leverage their investments for additional contracts or spin-off technologies.
When Harry called an emergency shareholders' meeting with less than forty-eight hours notice, they all responded immediately, canceling other appointments and flying in from around the country. The urgency suggested either a crisis or an opportunity, and none of them wanted to miss either.
In the Oscorp Tower conference room—a space designed to intimidate with its massive table carved from a single piece of imported hardwood and chairs that cost more than most people's cars—Harry sat at the head position with the kind of controlled tension that came from knowing you were about to walk into a carefully planned ambush.
The room's lighting was precisely calibrated to create an atmosphere of serious business, with recessed fixtures that eliminated shadows while maintaining the kind of subtle drama that made everyone look more important than they actually were. The walls displayed Oscorp's corporate history through carefully curated photographs and awards, a visual reminder of the company's past successes and future potential.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the board," Harry began, his voice carrying the confident authority he'd learned to project even when he felt anything but certain, "Oscorp has been performing exceptionally well in recent quarters. Operating costs are down twelve percent, profits are up eighteen percent, and our stock price has reached historical highs."
A short-haired older man sitting directly across from him—Richard Fisk, whose pharmaceutical investments had made him wealthy enough to play corporate politics as a hobby—smiled with the thin, predatory expression of someone who'd heard similar presentations before they turned into feeding frenzies.
"Excellent news, Harry," Fisk said, his voice carrying the kind of false warmth that experienced businesspeople used to mask their real intentions. "By the way, isn't your father feeling much better these days? We haven't seen Norman at any recent board functions or industry events."
The question was delivered with casual concern, but Harry could hear the probing edge underneath. They were testing whether Norman was still actively involved in company decisions or if Harry was operating without his father's guidance and protection.
"He's attending to his own business interests," Harry replied with deliberate coolness, his tone making it clear that his father's activities were none of their concern. "Why do you ask?"
A distinguished white-haired man at the far end of the table—Marcus Stromberg, whose family had owned Oscorp shares since the company's founding—took a slow, deliberate sip of his coffee from an expensive porcelain cup. The gesture was calculated to create suspense, a theatrical pause that suggested important revelations were coming.
"It's nothing particularly concerning," Stromberg said, his voice carrying the kind of authority that came from decades of boardroom battles. "It's simply that some of your recent executive actions have not been in accordance with established corporate procedures."
"Really?" Harry challenged, leaning forward slightly and letting steel creep into his voice. "There are a lot of business decisions that don't follow traditional procedures when circumstances require flexibility. You'll have to be much more specific about your concerns."
Stromberg said nothing in response, simply continuing to sip his coffee with maddening deliberation. The silence stretched until it became uncomfortable, filled only by the soft hum of the climate control system and the distant sounds of the city far below.
A middle-aged woman with expertly styled blonde hair sitting beside Stromberg—Victoria Snow, whose venture capital firm specialized in military technology investments—finally broke the standoff. "We would like you to provide complete disclosure regarding the details of the U.S. military's recent investment and exactly where those substantial funds are being allocated."
Her voice carried the kind of authority that came from controlling hundreds of millions in investment capital, and her pale blue eyes never wavered from Harry's face as she delivered what was clearly an ultimatum rather than a request.
"You would actually care about routine financial allocation?" Harry said, his voice laced with genuine amusement that made several board members shift uncomfortably in their leather chairs. "I honestly don't think standard accounting practices are what you're really interested in."
The conference room fell into complete silence, the kind of heavy quiet that preceded either surrender or open warfare. The expensive air filtration system whispered through hidden vents, and somewhere in the distance, elevator machinery hummed as late-night security made their rounds.
It was crystal clear what this meeting was really about. They weren't concerned with fiscal responsibility or corporate governance. They were looking for an excuse to get involved in what they perceived as a tremendously profitable opportunity.
"I believe," Harry said, leaning forward and placing his hands flat on the polished table surface, "what you really mean is that you want to see detailed information about the status of our new cooperative project with the American military."
The shareholders present looked at him with carefully neutral expressions, neither confirming nor denying his accusation. Their silence was answer enough. They all knew that requesting information about the company's general finances was their legal right as major investors, but demanding access to classified military projects was an entirely different matter—and potentially treasonous if handled incorrectly.
They were fishing, hoping to find some leverage they could use to force their way into what promised to be an extremely lucrative arrangement.
Harry turned his attention to a distinguished bald man sitting to his right—Maxwell Dillon, whose family had been close friends with the Osborns for three generations and who had always been a reliable ally in previous corporate disputes.
"Mr. Max, do you want to see the classified project details too?" Harry asked, and there was genuine disappointment in his voice. Max owned a considerable percentage of Oscorp shares and had always supported Harry's father through various business challenges.
The bald man looked genuinely apologetic, his weathered face showing the discomfort of someone caught between personal loyalty and business interests. "I'm sorry, Harry. This was a unanimous decision of the board. We voted before the meeting began."
Harry let his gaze sweep around the expensive conference table, taking in each face and recognizing the signs of a coordinated attack. They had all colluded beforehand, probably in a series of private phone calls and informal meetings. They were determined to strong-arm him into revealing information about the military project, regardless of legal consequences or national security implications.
"It seems everyone's mind is already made up," Harry said, and a dangerous smile began spreading across his face—the kind of expression that his father wore when he was about to destroy a competitor. "Fine. I'll show you exactly what you want to see."
He leaned back in his chair with casual confidence, the leather creaking softly under his weight. "I just sincerely hope you don't regret asking for this demonstration."
After delivering that warning, he clapped his hands twice in sharp, deliberate strikes that echoed through the conference room like gunshots.
The shareholders looked at him with expressions ranging from confusion to concern, wondering what theatrical gesture he was attempting. The sound seemed to hang in the air, followed by a silence that stretched just long enough to become uncomfortable.
Suddenly, with a sound like controlled thunder, the reinforced wall behind Stromberg at the far end of the table exploded inward in a shower of concrete dust, twisted metal, and pulverized drywall.
The white-haired man, who had been calmly sipping his coffee moments before, immediately dropped all pretense of dignity. He threw his expensive porcelain cup aside—it shattered against the wall in a spray of coffee and ceramic fragments—and scrambled toward the conference room door with the desperate urgency of someone who suddenly realized he was completely out of his depth.
Victoria Snow, the blonde woman beside him, jumped up from her chair with such violent panic that she lost her balance entirely, her expensive heels catching on the thick carpet. She began falling backward toward the polished floor, her arms windmilling helplessly as gravity took control.
The other supposedly calm, elegant business tycoons forgot decades of practiced corporate decorum and immediately dove under the massive conference table like children hiding from monsters, their expensive suits getting dirty and torn as they scrambled for cover.
Just as Snow was about to hit the floor hard enough to cause serious injury, a strand of spider-web shot out from the swirling cloud of smoke and dust, catching her around the waist with perfect precision. The web line pulled her gently upright and deposited her safely on her feet, though her perfectly styled hair was now disheveled and her makeup smudged with fear-induced perspiration.
From under the heavy conference table, the shareholders peeked out like frightened animals, staring at the gaping hole that had replaced what moments before had been a solid wall. Two figures stood silhouetted in the swirling dust and debris, backlit by the city lights streaming through the damaged exterior wall. Behind them, a large, dark shadow floated ominously in the night sky beyond the building.
A brief flash of green light flickered around one of the figures as armor systems activated and reconfigured, immediately replaced by a brilliant pulse of red as the transformation completed itself.
John, now in his imposing red Mighty Form, patted Peter on the shoulder with gentle exasperation. "Man, how are we supposed to properly intimidate them if you keep doing heroic things like that?"
"I still think this whole approach is too dangerous," Peter whispered back, his voice tight with concern and disapproval. "Look, that lady almost got seriously hurt. Can't we just sit down like civilized people and have a rational conversation with them?"
John shrugged, a gesture that somehow managed to look both casual and threatening when performed by someone in full combat armor. "I think you should keep quiet for now. The lady doesn't seem particularly happy with your assistance."
Indeed, Victoria Snow, now back on her feet but thoroughly shaken, was glaring at Peter with the fierce intensity of someone who felt deeply insulted by the entire situation. Her pride had been wounded more than her body, and she clearly blamed the web-slinger for the indignity of needing to be rescued.
The smoke and concrete dust finally began to settle, revealing the full scope of the dramatic entrance. John stood in his crimson armor, every surface gleaming with technological sophistication, while Peter's red and blue costume bore the unmistakable NYPD logo that marked him as an official law enforcement officer. Behind them, the night sky was visible through the destroyed wall, and Golem could be seen floating silently in the distance like a mechanical guardian angel.
The shareholders' expressions underwent a rapid transformation from raw terror to shocked recognition. They knew these figures. As the only two superheroes publicly cooperating with the NYPD, John and Peter had been featured extensively in news coverage, corporate security briefings, and industry publications. In fact, several of the men currently hiding under the conference table had sent corporate recruiters to try and hire them for private security work, offers that had been politely but firmly declined.
John and Peter walked calmly toward Harry's end of the table, their footsteps creating an odd rhythm—John's armored boots clicking against the polished floor while Peter's soft-soled feet moved almost silently. Behind them, Golem gracefully maneuvered through the hole in the wall and disappeared into the night sky, its mission of dramatic entrance successfully completed.
Realizing that this was apparently a business negotiation rather than a terrorist attack, the shareholders slowly began crawling out from under the massive conference table. They attempted to straighten their expensive suits and resume their previously calm, commanding demeanors, brushing dust and debris from their clothing while trying to pretend that the last few minutes hadn't completely shattered their sense of control over the situation.
But John wasn't buying their attempts to regain dignity, and his next words would make it clear that the power dynamic in this room had fundamentally shifted.
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