The newsroom didn't sleep.
It hummed, flickered, breathed in caffeine and deadlines. The fluorescent lights had that tired hum of overwork—the same sound journalists made when running on cold coffee and half-conviction. Screens glowed with spreadsheets, image files, and headlines still being tested aloud like whispered prayers.
Danny Ruiz sat buried under legal printouts, elbows deep in the mountain of evidence Ethan had brought in. "This isn't just corporate negligence," he muttered, tapping his pen on a contract header. "This is racketeering, insider trading, and—hell—possible treason." He started drafting a section on violations of federal export laws, quoting from the Stark Export Compliance Act and international trade statutes. Each word read like a nail in Norman Osborn's coffin.
Across the room, Clara Hensley squinted at a chain of emails labeled under Dr. Anthony Kelso. She double-sourced the identity, cross-referencing employee rosters and HR memos from Oscorp's earlier fiscal years. "He's real on paper," she said quietly. "Every file checks out. Whoever created this persona—" she caught herself, glancing toward Peter "—was meticulous."
Peter nodded, not saying what he knew. Ethan had crafted Kelso with frightening precision.
At the next desk, Mark Donnelly's face was half-lit by his monitor as he typed the lead paragraph for what would be Insight's biggest front-page feature in years. "We need a hook," he muttered. "Something that makes people care before they even know what they're reading." He scrolled through tax ledgers, highlighting offshore deposits linked to Oscorp subsidiaries in Symkaria, Madripoor, and Latveria. "He's hidden billions. If my math's right, Osborn's avoided paying more in taxes than the city's annual education budget."
Peter stood over his shoulder, red-penning phrasing, cutting redundancies, shaping the flow into something human. "Lead with corruption, not just money," he advised. "People understand greed, not accounting."
Mark grinned faintly. "You're a cynic, Parker."
"Journalist," Peter corrected, though the words didn't sound like armor anymore.
The newsroom felt alive—like the air before a thunderstorm. Everyone was chasing truth, even if they didn't realize how close that truth had come to killing them.
Felicia Hardy arrived quietly, dressed down in a leather jacket, her hair tied back, her usual smirk dimmed to a faint line. She walked up behind Peter, watching him edit. "Look at you," she said softly, "Mr. Reporter Man, saving the world with commas."
Peter startled, then smiled despite himself. "You shouldn't be here."
"I know," she said, stepping closer. "But I couldn't resist. I wanted to see what our little break-in bought us."
He hesitated before asking, "And?"
Felicia's eyes softened. "Worth it. Almost." Then, after a beat, "You handled yourself pretty well back there. That kiss wasn't bad either."
Peter froze, pen still in hand. "Felicia…"
She raised a hand. "Relax, tiger. I know. You're with MJ."
Her voice was lighter than her eyes. "Still—guess part of me enjoyed our act more than I should've."
Peter exhaled through his nose, looking away. "Yeah. I did too." The honesty slipped out before he could stop it. Then, quickly: "But it can't happen again."
"I figured." She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "So how's the story going?"
"Changing everything," Peter said, glancing at the screens. "Maybe for better. Maybe not."
Felicia leaned against a desk, studying the bustle of reporters. "You're starting to sound like him."
"Him who?"
She smirked. "Ethan. That mix of genius and self-doubt. Guess you two are rubbing off on each other."
Across town, Ethan Kane stood in the glow of a flickering streetlight outside a late-night bodega. His laptop bag hung from one shoulder, his tie loose. The kiosk owner, a balding man with nicotine fingers, eyed the stack of Insight newspapers skeptically.
"You're telling me," the man said, "I get three hundred copies, a free ad, and I don't pay a cent the first month?"
Ethan nodded. "Exactly. You sell out, you keep the cut. It's free press that'll draw customers."
The man scratched his chin. "What's the story?"
Ethan smiled faintly. "You'll know Monday morning." He handed over the flyer, shaking hands before moving on to the next shop. His reflection caught briefly in the window—tired eyes, a faint smile, the face of someone who had already seen what the city didn't yet know.
Back in Newark, the clock struck three. The newsroom was thinning. Papers rustled, printers hummed, and the faint hum of the servers filled the quiet spaces between thoughts.
Peter stood by the window, looking out at the skyline. Watching. Waiting. Soon, Norman Osborn would be taken down for good. He dared to kidnap Aunt May and hold her captive, making him believe she had died. No matter what, Peter would never forgive the man and couldn't wait to be rid of him.
And in Oscorp's dimly lit executive suite, Norman indeed was awake.
He stood over a cluster of monitors, flanked by his tech division. The screen displayed traces of unauthorized activity—partial deletions, altered routing numbers, and access spikes around 11:42 PM the night of the gala.
"Someone was in my system, and I want to know who," Norman said softly.
A tech stammered, "We—we're running diagnostics, sir. It might've been a false flag—"
"False?" Norman snapped. "Do you think I'm an idiot?" His reflection in the glass was all shadow and teeth. "Trace it. Find who touched my servers. I don't care if it's internal or external—I want a name now!"
Outside the glass, the night pulsed with the rhythm of a city about to wake into chaos.