"I object!"
The words rang out, defiant and full of bluster. The speaker was a florid-faced man with gold-rimmed glasses that sat atop a bulbous nose. "Your chairmanship hasn't been ratified by a full board vote. It's a backroom deal with a disgraced CEO. Furthermore, our combined voting bloc is more than sufficient to call for an emergency removal. As of this moment, you are not the recognized head of Osborn Industries!"
Aaron turned his head, his gaze settling on the man. He didn't glare. He didn't scowl. He simply looked.
The shareholder's tirade died in his throat. A wave of cold, so profound it felt metaphysical, washed through his core. He began to shiver uncontrollably, his teeth chattering. A creeping stiffness seized his limbs, a sensation of his very blood slowing to a glacial pace. His thoughts grew thick, syrupy. He glanced, panicked, at the sun-drenched window.
It's midday. How can I be so cold?
The man Warwick, still damp and shaken from his earlier ejection, watched with a grim, secret satisfaction.
Misery loves company. Now they'll understand.
The other board members shifted uneasily. Something was wrong. The man wasn't just nervous; he was displaying physical symptoms of acute distress under Aaron's placid stare.
Another shareholder, emboldened by the sheer illogic of it, cleared his throat. "Mr. Aaron, even if you wish to acquire our positions, the offer must be competitive. Venture Aerospace's initial bid is quite substantial—"
A third chimed in, "And Advanced Idea Mechanics has made a compelling proposal for our bio-research divisions. Hammer Industries is interested in the defense contracts. You'd need to exceed—"
"You are still laboring under a fundamental misapprehension," Aaron interrupted, his voice soft as he finally took his seat. His fingers tapped a slow, arrhythmic beat on the table leg. "I am not making an offer. I am issuing a directive. Your agency in this matter is an illusion."
His eyes, now devoid of any pretense of civility, swept the room. Two of the most vocal objectors flinched as if struck. One suddenly gasped, his breath frosting in the warm room, his hands clutching at arms erupting in gooseflesh. The other let out a strangled cry, clawing at his collar, his face turning beet-red as sweat poured from his pores in a sudden, drenching wave.
The remaining members felt a wave of nausea, a throbbing pressure behind their eyes, a disorienting dizziness. It was as if the very air in the room had become hostile, each person subjected to a different, personalized wavelength of discomfort. A collective dread, cold and sharp, speared through their financial bravado.
What is he? The thought echoed in a dozen minds. A look, a mere presence, and their bodies rebelled.
Warwick, the pressure in his bladder becoming critical, could bear it no longer. The urge to simply survive overrode every instinct for pride or profit.
"M-Mr. Aaron!" he blurted, his voice cracking. "Upon… upon reconsideration, your proposal has merit! The stock is in a volatile decline. Your terms represent a fair exit strategy! Regardless of what others may say, I am prepared to sign immediately!"
Aaron's expression didn't change, but he gave a slight, acknowledging nod. He glanced at Felicia, who, though bewildered, caught his meaning. Norman, moving with the swift efficiency of a man who has seen the horizon of the possible, was already on the phone to legal, barking orders for share-transfer agreements.
Warwick felt the awful, personalized pressure vanish the moment the words left his lips. He slumped, gasping, his expensive suit plastered to his skin with cold sweat. He looked down; he was drenched, as if he'd been pulled from a lake. Without ceremony, he grabbed a crystal carafe of water from the table and drank directly from it, gulping desperately.
Norman watched, a strange awe cutting through his confusion. He'd battled these hyenas all morning, logic and threats bouncing off their greed. Aaron had walked in, said barely a dozen sentences, and broken them with… atmosphere? A mood?
It was power of a kind Norman had no framework to understand.
The dam broke."I… I concur as well! I'll sell!""My shares are yours!""And mine! Just… make it stop!"
Aaron let the chorus of surrender hang for a moment, then raised a hand. Silence fell, immediate and total.
"Excellent. Those who agreed promptly will have their holdings purchased at the current market price, as stated." His gaze, now leisurely, traveled to the few who had remained silent, paralyzed by fear or stubbornness. "As for the rest of you… I apologize for the miscommunication. I will still acquire your shares, but the valuation will be based on the stock index at the precise moment you affix your signature to the agreement. I trust… you have no objection to this revised term?"
It was a robbery disguised as a question. The 'revised term' meant waiting as the stock continued its death spiral, losing millions with each passing minute. The remaining holders looked into his eyes and saw not anger, but an infinite, patient cold. The message was clear: refuse, and the personal, physical torment would continue indefinitely. Agree, and you merely faced financial ruin instead of… whatever this was.
"N-no objection!""Of course! That's… perfectly reasonable!"
Tears of humiliation and terror welled in the eyes of titans of industry.
"Splendid!" Aaron clapped his hands together once, the sound jarringly normal. "It seems we've reached a harmonious consensus. Norman, you witnessed the unanimous board resolution. Process the paperwork precisely as outlined."
With the matter settled, Aaron rose. He didn't offer parting pleasantries. As he moved toward the door, he paused beside the florid-faced man who had first shouted his objection. The man was still pale, shivering in his seat.
Aaron gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. The man flinched as if branded.
"Sir?" he squeaked.
"Nothing of consequence," Aaron said, his tone almost kindly. "But I have something of an eye for these things. There's a distinct pallor about you. A shadow. I'd strongly recommend a comprehensive medical examination. Immediately. Your constitution appears… gravely compromised."
The man's eyes widened. He didn't believe in fortune-telling, but the certainty in Aaron's voice, coupled with the memory of the paralyzing cold, struck a chord of primal fear. "Y-yes! Right away, sir!"
He scrawled his name on the proffered contract, then bolted from the room as if the hounds of hell were at his heels. He fumbled for his phone, mind racing.
The annual executive physical. I'm overdue. Need to call Dr. Clay… Mid-dial, a crippling wave of dizziness and chest pain slammed into him. He stumbled, colliding with the wall, before slumping to the floor, gasping. "H-help… Doctor…!"
****
Back in the boardroom, Aaron watched the chaos through the open door with detached interest. He turned to Norman.
"Norman, if I recall correctly, the Osborn genetic affliction, when triggered in a body already under significant systemic stress, can be rapidly… terminal, yes?"
Norman, distracted by the commotion, nodded slowly. "Yes, Boss. The degradation accelerates exponentially if the host is immunocompromised or suffering another major ailment. Death within hours is not uncommon. Why do you ask?" A cold suspicion began to dawn.
"No reason," Aaron said, a faint, enigmatic smile playing on his lips. "Just confirming a theory. I'm satisfied."
He had, of course, done more than just 'look' at the obstructive shareholder. When he'd patted the man's shoulder, he had transferred a refined, hyper-aggressive strain of the genetic corruption he had drawn from Norman.
It was a weaponized disease, a ghost of the Osborn curse, supercharged and seeded into a body already reeling from the targeted cryokinetic and thermokinetic assault. The combination was designed to be catastrophic and, to any autopsy, perfectly explainable as a pre-existing, tragic condition.
Norman stared, the pieces clicking into a horrifying, brilliant mosaic. His new employer didn't just defeat opponents. He engineered their demise with a precision that left no fingerprints. The respect in Norman's gut curdled into something closer to holy terror, tightly wrapped in fervent loyalty. He did this for me. To clear my path.
Misinterpreting Aaron's thoughtful silence as a reminder of unfinished business, Norman's sense of duty redoubled. Harry. He's thinking of Harry. I must prove my worth.
He snatched his tablet, opening his brutal schedule. With a decisive stroke, he deleted his only remaining personal block—a thirty-minute window slated for "lunch." He turned to his stunned assistant.
"For the foreseeable future, you will handle all of Harry's school transportation and appointments. If he questions it, tell him his father is securing his future. Every minute. Tell him… it's all for him."
"Understood, Mr. Osborn."
For Harry, Norman would move mountains. For the man who could move the fabric of reality itself, he would move universes.