[9 PM] [Titan HQ NY]
Today's shoot is focused on Oscorp and Daily Bugle.
The actors were ready, and the lighting and cameras were set to go.
Alfred Molina sat in the chair behind the desk with his shoulders slightly hunched and his hands folded together as if holding himself steady. His hair was neatly combed, and his glasses rested low on his nose. His posture carried nothing theatrical. It felt tired and earned.
Inside the elevator set, Willem Dafoe stood perfectly still. His back was straight, and his expression remained neutral. His hands rested loosely at his sides, and the relaxed posture somehow made him appear more dangerous. He was in his character.
Alex stood near the monitor, his eyes moving between both actors.
"Alright," he said calmly. "This is a decision. Norman is disappointed. Otto, you are defending your life's work."
Both actors nodded.
Alex raised his hand.
"Scene H4," he said. "Take one."
He lowered it.
"Action."
The elevator doors slid open with a soft mechanical hum.
Norman Osborn stepped out slowly. The sound of his shoes against the polished floor. He moved with the ease of someone who already belonged in the room. He entered Otto's office.
Otto looked up from his desk.
"Norman," he said. His voice carried restrained warmth. "I was hoping to speak with you."
Norman stopped a few steps from the desk and folded his hands behind his back. His expression softened just enough to suggest familiarity.
"So was I," he replied.
Otto gestured toward the chair across from him. "Please. Sit."
Norman remained standing.
"I'll keep this short," he said. "Oscorp's board reviewed the prosthetics division again."
Otto's fingers tightened slightly on the edge of the desk.
"And?" he asked quietly.
Norman met his eyes. "We're shutting it down."
The sentence landed without drama, clean and final.
Otto exhaled slowly and leaned back in his chair. "You cannot be serious. We are months away from a breakthrough. The neural chip is almost 70% finished. We can start the human trial in a few months."
"You were months away last year," Norman said gently. "And the year before that."
Otto leaned forward, his voice sharpening. "Progress takes time. You understand that. We are rebuilding human function."
Norman nodded once. "I understand."
"Then why do this now?" Otto asked. "Why pull the funding when we are so close?"
Norman stepped closer to the desk. His voice lowered with quiet restraint.
"Your condition no longer allows you to work efficiently," he said. "Degenerative neurological disorder. That is the phrase the board used."
Otto froze.
Norman continued in a gentler tone. "Your motor control is declining. Your cognitive fatigue is increasing. The reports say you are compensating well. Compensation is not the same as progress. How many times did you black out last month? Or, forget something important?"
Otto's jaw clenched. "My health has nothing to do with the quality of the research."
"It is directly tied to it," Norman replied. "Oscorp does not invest in projects that slow to a standstill."
Otto pushed himself to his feet, palms flat against the desk. "Don't do this, Norman. I just need a few more months."
Norman didn't flinch. "I'm sorry, old friend."
A long silence opened between them.
Otto's gaze dropped briefly to his own hands, then lifted again.
Norman straightened. "The funding is being reallocated."
Otto's eyes narrowed. "To whom?"
"Curtis Connors," Norman said. "His cellular regeneration work is showing consistent, measurable progress."
Otto gave a short, bitter laugh. "Growing new tissue isn't the same as restoring actual function."
"If regeneration works at scale," Norman answered, "prosthetics become a legacy technology."
Otto's voice dropped. "You're wiping out decades of work. My work."
"I'm protecting the company's future," Norman said.
Otto shook his head slowly. "This isn't about science anymore. It's about optics. Quarterly reports. Looking fast and decisive."
Norman paused, then answered quietly, "It's about time."
Otto's expression flickered.
Norman's tone gentled further. "Yours is running out. You shouldn't spend what's left fighting a decline inside a lab that's asking more from you than it's ever going to give back."
Otto stared at him, anger and disbelief warring behind his eyes. "You want me to retire."
"I want you to rest," Norman said. "To live what years you have left without killing yourself for something the board has already written off."
Otto swallowed hard. His voice trembled despite his effort to steady it. "This work is my life."
Norman gave a small nod. "I know."
He turned slightly toward the windows, the glittering city stretching out behind the glass.
"That's exactly why I'm making this decision for you," he said.
Otto's hands were trembling now.
"You don't get to decide when I'm done," he said.
Norman turned back, face calm again. "Oscorp does."
He stepped toward the elevator.
"I'm sorry, Otto," he said, and it sounded sincere. "I really am."
Norman turned around and walked to the door. It slid open. He looked back one last time.
"Enjoy the time you have left," he said quietly. "Don't waste it trying to prove something to people who've already moved on."
The doors sealed shut.
Otto stood alone in the office. His breathing was shallow. His fists were clenched so hard the knuckles had blanched white.
"Cut," Alex said, almost under his breath.
No one spoke for a moment.
Then Alex nodded once, a small, satisfied gesture.
"That," he said, "was exactly what the scene needed."
He replayed the final expression of both actors and nodded. "I love working with you guys."
...
[30 minutes later]
The Daily Bugle shoot has begun...
Alex gave the cue.
"Action."
...
[Daily Bugle – Newsroom]
The newsroom never really sleeps, but at this hour it's down to a low, angry hum. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Half the desks are empty, the other half occupied by people who look like they've been here since the previous administration. Phones ring and get ignored. A police scanner crackles faintly in the background like someone left a radio on in another room.
J. Jonah Jameson's office door is open, as always. He likes people to know he's in there, ready to bite.
Peter Parker stands just inside the doorway, backpack slung over one shoulder, looking like he ran here from the other side of Queens. His hair is a mess, his hoodie has a faint smear of something dark across the sleeve, probably grease from a hot dog cart, definitely not blood, and his sneakers are leaving faint wet prints on the carpet. It rained earlier.
Jameson doesn't look up from the layout on his desk. He's circling headlines with a red pen like he's marking battle plans.
"You're late, Parker."
Peter steps forward a little. "I'm… actually early for once. You said nine-thirty."
Jameson finally glances up, eyes narrowing. "I said be here when I need you, not when the clock says it's convenient. Sit."
Peter hesitates, then drops into the chair opposite the desk. It creaks like it's personally offended.
Jameson tosses the pen down and leans back, folding his arms. "You look like hell. What happened? Did the laundry eat you?"
Peter gives a small, tired smile. "Something like that."
Jameson snorts. "Spare me the wounded-puppy routine. I've got a two-page spread on the Oscorp shake-up that's going to press in forty minutes, and I need pictures. Good ones. Not the usual blurry garbage you turn in."
Peter shifts in the seat. "I heard about it. The prosthetics division is getting axed."
Jameson's eyebrows shoot up. "You heard? From who? Your Aunt May's knitting circle?"
"People talk," Peter says quietly. "Especially when it's big."
Jameson leans forward now, elbows on the desk. "Then you know why I need you there tomorrow morning. They're holding a press event at nine. Smiling board members, some PR-approved statement about 'reprioritizing innovation,' blah blah blah. I want the real story. I want faces. I want the scientists who just got their funding yanked looking like someone kicked their dog. I want Dr. Octavius if he shows up. The man's a legend in that building—used to be untouchable. Now he's yesterday's news. I want the moment it hits him."
Peter looks down at his hands for a second. "You want me to photograph a guy losing everything?"
"I want you to photograph the truth," Jameson snaps. "If the truth is ugly, that's not my fault. That's physics. And right now the truth is that Norman Osborn just put a bullet in the brain of twenty years of research because it wasn't moving fast enough for Wall Street. That's a story. You're going to take the pictures that make people feel it."
Peter exhales through his nose. "I'll be there."
"Good." Jameson picks up his pen again, already moving on. "And Parker..."
Peter starts to stand.
"...don't give me that look."
Peter pauses halfway out of the chair. "What look?"
"The one that says you think I'm the bad guy for wanting the story. I'm not the one who decided to shut down the lab. I'm the one who makes sure the public knows it happened. You want to play hero? Go save kittens from trees. You want to work here? Bring me pictures that matter."
Peter meets his eyes for a long second.
"I'll bring you the pictures," he says finally and then begins to walk toward the door.
"Hey, kid," Jameson calls after him.
Peter stops and looks back.
"Wear something that doesn't look like you slept in it. And maybe shower. Now, get out of here."
...
{Next Scene}
[Daily Bugle – Newsroom] [Morning]
This floor looked exactly like a busy press.
Alex watches the monitors, then lifts his hand.
"Alright," he says. "Front page crunch."
He lowers his hand.
"Action."
Peter Parker walked through the bullpen with an envelope tucked under his arm. He looks cleaner than last night but only barely. But he was wearing the same clothes.
Inside the open office, J. Jonah Jameson is already standing. Jacket off, sleeves rolled and tie loosened. He is arguing with a layout board as if it personally insulted him.
"We have twenty minutes," Jameson barks. "Twenty."
Robbie Robertson stands beside the desk, calm but firm, tapping his watch.
"Jonah," Robbie says, "the presses are waiting. Pick the photo."
Jameson spins. "I will when I see something worth printing."
Peter clears his throat. "Uh. Morning, Mr. Jameson."
Jameson turns slowly. His eyes lock onto Peter.
"Oh great," he says. "It is the human delay."
Peter steps forward and holds up the envelope. "I have pictures."
Jameson snatches the envelope out of his hands and dumps the contents across the desk. Glossy photos slide everywhere. Spider-Man mid swing. Spider-Man lands and takes down a few robbers. Spider-Man framed against the skyline as he waved at a kid.
Jameson leans in, squinting.
Robbie leans in too. "These are clean. He looks heroic."
"That is because he saved people," Peter says carefully.
Jameson shoots him a look. "Do not editorialize. That is my job."
From outside the office, Betty Brant looks up from her desk as the phone rings. She answers, listens, then winces.
She leans toward the doorway. "Boss?"
Jameson does not look away from the photos. "Unless the building is on fire, it can wait."
Betty covers the receiver. "It is your wife."
Jameson straightens. "What happened?"
"She says she lost the checkbook."
Jameson breaks into a grin. "That is fantastic news. Tell her I'm busy, call me later."
The entire room pauses.
Robbie blinks.
Jameson waves it off. "Now she can't buy more decorative pillows. Now. Back to the real emergency."
He turns back to Peter, jabs a finger at one of the photos.
"This one," he says. "Big. Front page. Spider-Man terrorizes the city again."
"He is literally waving at a kid," Peter says.
"Menacing wave. Ah! I got it. Spider-Man terrorizes little kids," Jameson replies. "Five hundred. Leave the photos and get out."
Peter's mouth opens. "Five hundred? That barely covers living expenses."
Jameson leans back in his chair. "Then you should consider a less expensive city. Or a safer hobby."
Peter collected the photos and was about to walk away.
Robbie steps in. "Jonah, we do not have time."
Jameson nods once. "Fine. Six-hundred. Final. Leave the photos and get out."
Peter nodded as he placed the photos on the table.
"Thank you," he says.
Then he walked out.
Jameson is already shouting toward the bullpen. "Layout, move. That photo is going upstairs now. I want ink on paper before the city finishes its coffee."
Peter went to Betty, and she gave him the cheque.
"Here you go."
"Thanks," Peter said with a smile before walking out of the building.
Betty watched him go.
Jameson's voice rises again.
"And someone get me a headline that scares people but does not get us sued."
Alex watches the monitor, lets the moment breathe, then lifts his hand.
"Cut."
He nods, satisfied.
"Perfect," he says. "Reset. We are golden."
---[MORE POWERSTONES💎💎💎]---
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---
NOTE: Yeah, yeah, I know. A filler chapter in my book? What a surprise! 🤣🤣 I was sleepy when I was writing this one, so I took it easy for once. Promise, there won't be anymore in the future if I can help it. Oh, gimme those ps. 😬😬