The laptop's glow etched harsh shadows into the motel's peeling wallpaper, casting Ethan's hunched form in cold, merciless blue. His fingers moved with surgical precision across the keyboard, eyes flicking from tab to tab—bank portals, encrypted ledgers, dummy accounts, each a perfectly sculpted lie. Every shell company had a convincing backstory. Every transfer disappeared into the void. Oscorp's billions had bled out of the corporate artery and into the capillaries of the digital underworld—quiet, invisible, irreversible.
There was no smile on his face. No gloating. He had laid the plan out a week ago. This was just the execution—meticulous, methodical. A means to an end.
He reviewed the latest transfer from the dummy account labeled "Os & Co."—a fictional entity seeded months earlier with fake board members and a ghost CEO that easily linked to Osborn. To the Feds and the rest of the world, it would look like Osbron funneled money out to escape. Of course, neither Osborn nor the Feds could ever find it. The funds had funneled through thousands of laundering routes before pooling in "NeoCore Systems," another shell, this one primed to look like a bleeding-edge biotech startup. Completely untraceable unless you already knew what to look for. And no one did.
He clicked over to a folder labeled "G-Serum: Cross-Analysis."
Inside were his working notes on the Goblin Serum, extracted directly from Osborn's personal computer during the breach. The formula was maddeningly close to stable. Ethan had already begun modeling hybridizations— hope he could splice in data from Roughhouse's Asgardian physiology. To make his experiment come to fruition, he needed Forge's Superhuman Intuitive Talent for Inventing to achieve such complex gene splicing.
He opened the system interface.
[Abilities:]
S-Rank: [N/A]
A-Rank: [N/A]
B-Rank: [N/A]
C-Rank: [N/A]
D-Rank: [N/A]
E-Rank: [Supercomputer Mind]
F-Rank: [N/A]
He whispered aloud as he scrolled, half to himself, half to the glowing screen: "Now that I have enough money... it's time... to visit the X-Mansion. Hopefully, Forge's ability is a D-Rank or F-Rank. If it's an E-Rank, I won't be able to copy it. Then I'll need a plan B."
Forge's ability fascinated him—the intuitive leap beyond logic. What Ethan and Sage had in intelligence and genius, Forge had in instinct. If it could be copied and bonded to Ethan's own intellect. Then, it might also be enough to approximate the original super soldier serum used on Steve Rogers—without the ethical hang-ups or side effects. At least, not the kind Ethan cared about. With that, he could solve the issue of having a weak body with no active powers for now.
The hotel room was silent but for the hum of the laptop fan. Outside, New York fumed in the dark—protests growing, police scanners buzzing, the city pulsing with a nervous heartbeat. Oscorp had fallen, and no one quite knew what that meant yet.
Ethan leaned back, knuckles pressed to his chin.
"He should act soon," he murmured. "He knows the money's gone. Knows the walls are closing in. He's a cornered animal now."
He closed his eyes.
"Cornered animals fight to the death."
This, too, had been part of the plan. Not that he had told Peter or Felicia. They were good, but not this kind of good. The endgame was messy—ugly. Norman Osborn wasn't just a problem. He was a continuing threat. If Peter was ever going to have a future free of Goblins and grudges, Osborn had to die. Of course, Peter, ever the hero, would never agree to something like this, but this was where he and Ethan differed. As it just so happened Ethan still had Delilah stashed in a safe house, she could handle the assassination.
In a dim sub-laboratory deep beneath Oscorp Tower, Norman Osborn poured a second glass of whiskey and watched the green vials glint under the low industrial lighting. The room buzzed with the faint whine of machinery and fluorescent lights that flickered with unsettling irregularity. The air was stale with chemical residue and paranoia.
His fingers drummed a manic beat against the steel table. The vials were flawless—each filled with a luminescent emerald liquid that promised power, freedom, vengeance. He hadn't touched them yet. Not quite.
The television in the corner of the lab played a muted montage of disgrace. News anchors dissected the fall of Oscorp, panelists speculated about financial crimes, and headlines screamed across the screen like accusations: "Billionaire Blunder!" "Oscorp Implodes!" "Where's the Money, Norman?"
He had expected scrutiny. Even hostility. But this was evisceration. Public flaying.
A knock on the door.
Norman didn't respond. His secretary entered anyway, hesitant. She held a tablet in shaking hands.
"Mr. Osborn…" she said quietly. "After reviewing the elevator logs and talking to the guards, these individuals stood out during the gala. They disappeared at key moments, and the names they gave—'Peter Marks' and 'Felicia Harper'—do match our guest list, but it seems they were added at a later time. We suspect they hacked the list and added themselves."
She turned the screen.
The photo displayed was sharp, high-resolution.
Peter Parker in a sleek black suit, Felicia Hardy in a striking dress—elegant and brazen. They looked like the perfect power couple. Or the perfect distraction.
"They were acting strangely," she continued. "Security thinks they may have been working with whoever hit the servers."
Norman didn't answer. Just nodded. "Thank you. Leave it with me."
Once she was gone, he picked up the tablet and stared. The photo seared into his vision.
Peter Parker.
Norman's fingers tightened.
At first, it didn't make sense. Peter was a photographer. But too many coincidences were piling up. It made sense when he thought about it. Peter's Aunt was liberated from the secret holding facility Osborn had hidden her in after he kidnapped her and faked her death… it was reported to have been done by a new, upcoming villain, Dusk. But put that incident next to this, Norman easily figured that Dusk must be an alias of Peter's now that Spider-Man is out of the picture.
He'd first written it off as bad luck on his part. No longer.
And Felicia? Of course, it was her. The cat burglar turned philanthropist? Ridiculous. She was always a wolf in silk. A known thief, appearing beside him at the exact moment Oscorp was gutted?
He put down the glass of whiskey. Then he picked it back up.
Then, with a scream, hurled it into the wall.
The shards hit the floor like punctuation.
Then, laughter—faint and rising, worming its way from his throat. Not his laughter. Not really. The voice was familiar. Old. Green.
Norman gripped the edge of the table. No. Not yet. The mask was still in storage. Still locked away. And agents were outside, he'd have to be patient for now.
He didn't pour another drink. He just stared at the photo.
Peter Parker was going to pay.
Across the city, Peter leaned against a graffiti-tagged mailbox, staring at a growing crowd outside Oscorp's secondary building. Police had set up barriers. Protesters surged and swore and threw things. News vans loomed like buzzards over roadkill.
A hand-painted sign caught his eye. "MURDERERS IN SUITS!"
He swallowed.
This was supposed to be justice. But it felt like revenge rather than anything.
He took out his phone. Three missed calls from MJ. One new message from May: "Saw the news. MJ can't reach you. I'm fine, but please—whatever this is, be careful."
Peter closed his eyes. The guilt coiled around his chest, tight and unrelenting. He wasn't sure who he was trying to protect anymore—or from what.
His phone buzzed again. Ethan.
Peter hesitated before answering.
"Hello, Peter. How have you been?" Ethan said. "I hope you're doing well."
Peter didn't answer right away. He was too tired to pretend he trusted Ethan really wanted to know how he was doing. "I'm fine. So, what is it? What's going on?"
"By now, Norman should suspect you," Ethan continued. "You and Felicia. If he's not an idiot, he should have checked the camera, so he should know both of you were there that night. Connecting the dots after that is easy."
Peter sighed, pressing a hand to his face. "Then we don't have much time. So, what do we do?"
"You stay visible. Predictable. I never told you, but I already found evidence to clear your name as Spider-Man. That's why I'm forcing his hand. I've already scheduled the data drop. It's set to be released to the other newspaper companies tomorrow. Tomorrow morning, every major outlet gets the proof that Norman Osborn is the Green Goblin. And that he framed Spider-Man for the murder of the small-time crook named Joey Z, so you'll get cleared as Spider-Man. That's why you'll have to suit up as Spider-Man and draw him to you so he doesn't attack anyone else like Mary Jane or Aunt May."
Peter stiffened. "You're exposing me? You don't think he'll attack tonight?"
"No, he's still being watched by federal agents, so it'll at least take a day before he can shake their tail," Ethan said, and Peter could hear the analytical calm under the words. "Regardless, I know you'll still worry, so I prepared for this. I had a house set up for the identity Peter Marks that you used. I'll send you the address, and you can have Mary Jane and Aunt May go there tonight. I'm sorry to say, due to the time constraints, it's unfurnished. So they'll have to rough it for one night, but it'll keep them off Norman's radar. This issue should be done by tomorrow."
Peter was silent for a long time.
"You thought of everything, didn't you?"
"I always do. It's part of my charm."
Another pause.
"You really think this ends tomorrow?"
"It would end today if Osborn would just flee the country," Ethan said. "But as I'm sure you know, Norman Osborn would rather burn this whole city down just to kill you. He'll attack you knowing that if he fails, he's going to prison for life."
Peter nodded, though Ethan couldn't see it.
"Send the address," he said.
In Oscorp's depths, Norman stared at the vials again.
Then at the tablet.
Then at the locked cabinet across the room.
He rose, calmly, and walked to the biometric scanner. The green light blinked. A hiss. A click.
The cabinet opened.
Inside: the suit, folded and gleaming. The glider components. The pumpkin bombs. The mask.
Norman stared into its frozen sneer.
Spider-Man had taken everything from him.
Now, he would return the favor.
He reached for the mask.