The crawlspace reeked of dust and solder.
Peter's hands hit the metal grate first, pushing it open with a quiet grunt. He dropped down onto the floor of the corridor, one level above the gala. The flashing red alarms had finally died, leaving the hall wrapped in sterile white light and silence. The hum of the building's life support—ventilation, power conduits, data lines—was the only heartbeat left.
Felicia slid out behind him, landing with catlike grace and brushing a fleck of dust from her thigh. "Next time," she said, voice low and sardonic, "I vote for rooftops and skylights. Less crawling."
Peter dusted his palms and the knees of his suit pants. "Yeah, sure, because rooftop guards never have guns."
Before she could answer, a voice echoed down the corridor.
"Good, you made it."
Ethan emerged from the next junction, breath ragged, sweat glistening along his temple. He looked like someone who'd just sprinted through hell with a laptop. A small black device hung from a strap across his chest—his personal data drive—and under his arm he carried another: the portable interface terminal unit he'd used to mask the hack.
"Jesus, Ethan," Peter said. "You look like you ran a marathon."
"I practically did." Ethan held out his free hand toward Felicia. "The ring."
Felicia then slipped the harvest ring from her celvage and placed it in his palm. He closed his fingers around it, eyes darting to the nearby elevator cameras.
"They'll be scanning for anything electronic when people leave," Felicia said. "You're not going to walk that thing out of here in your pocket."
Ethan's grin was quick and crooked, the look of someone who'd already solved the problem minutes ago. "Do I look that stupid to you. Of course, I'm not."
He motioned for them to follow.
They ducked through two side corridors until the polished marble gave way to industrial tile. Ahead, a metal door marked MAIL SERVICES – EMPLOYEES ONLY that Peter forcibly opened. Inside, the air was cool, dry, and smelled faintly of cardboard and printer ink. Racks of neatly labeled boxes lined the walls, the hum of sorting machines filling the silence.
Ethan moved with surgical calm. He grabbed a roll of bubble wrap, a plain cardboard parcel, and a spool of twine. Setting the drives and the ring on the table, he worked quickly—no wasted motion. Each device was sealed, layered, wrapped, and packed like a relic being entombed.
Peter watched. "You've done this before?"
Ethan didn't look up. "Nope, first time actually."
He tied the string into a precise knot and carried it.
When he straightened, the exhaustion had vanished from his face—only composure remained.
"I'll get it out," he said, almost gently. "You two, on the other hand, need to look like you have a proper excuse for why you were up here when you go downstairs. No one can suspect why you've been gone."
Peter frowned. "Look like we have a proper excuse? How?"
Felicia turned, eyes glinting. "Like this."
Before Peter could react, she reached up and mussed his hair with both hands, tugging until it stood at angles that defied gravity. She grabbed his tie, yanked it loose, and smudged his collar with a swipe of her thumb.
"Hey—what are you—?"
"Quiet." She stepped close, almost nose to nose, and pressed a lipstick kiss to the side of his neck. Then she tugged one strap of her black gown off her shoulder and tousled her own hair until it framed her face in deliberate chaos.
"There," she said, admiring her handiwork. "You look guilty. That's good."
Peter stared at her, horrified. "You can't be serious."
Felicia's smile was wicked and unrepentant. "Entirely."
Ethan blinked once, dry amusement tugging at his mouth. "That's… effective."
"Now, if you'll excuse us, kid," Felicia said, looping her arm through Peter's, "we have a scandal to fake."
Ethan nodded. "Head for the main floor. If you can avoid the guards and blend into the evac line. I'll create my own exit."
"How?" Peter asked.
"Don't worry about it," Ethan replied, already turning toward the maintenance shafts. "Worry more about looking like you've been making bad decisions."
Felicia chuckled. "We're halfway there."
They reached the stairwell just as a pair of security guards came up from below. The men stopped, flashlights sweeping over them.
"Where the hell are you two coming from?" one barked.
Felicia blinked up at them with wide, embarrassed eyes. "We, um… needed a little privacy." She gestured vaguely upward, adding just the right amount of breathless apology.
The guards looked at each other, then at Peter—his tie askew, hair wrecked, and a very visible lipstick mark on his neck.
One guard groaned. "Rich people. Christ."
"Sorry," Peter mumbled, voice cracking slightly.
"Get downstairs," the second guard muttered. "And next time, save it until you get home like normal people."
They stepped aside.
Felicia gave them a polite nod and tugged Peter down the stairs, suppressing a laugh until they reached the gala floor.
The blackout had thrown the evening into chaos. Guests clustered near the exits, trading gossip about short circuits and faulty generators. The PR team was already spinning it—an "electrical malfunction," Norman's assistant was saying, "nothing to be alarmed about."
Reporters from half a dozen outlets were outside the cordon, cameras flashing.
Felicia leaned in close, murmuring, "Remember to smile. You're the respectable one."
"I hate this," Peter muttered.
"I know. That's why it's fun."
The moment they stepped into the open, flashes erupted. Journalists shouted questions—"Ms. Harper! Mr. Marks! Were you affected by the blackout?"—and before Peter could protest, Felicia slid her arm through his again, pulling him toward the valet.
She leaned close enough for her lips to brush his ear. "Hope you've got a good story for the wife, tiger."
Peter froze, eyes wide.
Felicia laughed, delighted by his discomfort, as their BMW rolled up to the curb. She slipped into the passenger seat like nothing at all had happened, the flashbulbs chasing her grin.
High above, Ethan stood in the shadow of a maintenance hatch, watching through a slit in the shutters as the car pulled away. Below, Norman Osborn's voice carried through the ballroom, firm and composed despite the chaos.
[Ability Detected: Super-Soldier Physiology (Goblin Variant) – E-Rank]
{Warning: acquisition may result in dissociative identity fracture with a high probability of a violent secondary persona emergence}
[Do you wish to copy this ability?]
"An isolated power fault," he was telling reporters, smiling like a man who still believed in control.
"No, thank you," Ethan said, watching him for a long moment. Then he turned, ducked into the mechanical shaft, and disappeared into the dark hum of the building's veins.