The next morning.
Joren stood at the school gate, hands buried in his pockets, waiting for the bus.
He radiated an aura that screamed "Don't talk to me."
Frankly, he'd rather spend the day in the library studying the migratory patterns and social structures of sperm whales than attend this field trip.
"Hey! Joren!"
Peter Parker bounded over, backpack bouncing and camera slung over one shoulder like it was part of his uniform.
Joren—Peter still hadn't quite nailed the pronunciation, but close enough—glanced at him and said nothing.
This guy treated science like a holy scripture.
Even though Joren offered zero encouragement, Peter didn't miss a beat.
"Yesterday, I went back and recalculated it," Peter said, eyes lighting up. "The trajectory of that fork—it wasn't just a simple parabola. It was more like…"
"More like what?" Joren finally spoke, voice low.
"Like it was guided," Peter whispered, leaning in. "Like… an invisible hand reached out and touched it."
He paused, then added with sudden intensity, "You know something, don't you?"
Joren tugged his cap lower and turned his head away.
"Have no idea."
Those three words again.
Peter felt like he'd punched a pillow—no resistance, no satisfaction. But he wasn't giving up. Not yet.
A short distance away, Marcus and a few other football players huddled together, eyes locked on Joren as they whispered.
Thompson hadn't been seen since yesterday afternoon.
Rumor had it he'd come down with a sudden, violent fever—vomiting, diarrhea, the works. The doctor diagnosed acute gastroenteritis… and a severe allergy to creamy pasta.
Of all things.
At Midtown High, that diagnosis had already turned him into the week's punchline.
---
On the bus to Oscorp Industries—not Osborne, a detail Joren noted with quiet irritation—
—he naturally claimed the window seat in the very back.
He shut his eyes, hoping to disappear into silence.
No such luck.
A familiar presence plopped into the empty seat beside him.
"Is… uh… is anyone sitting here?" Peter asked, already sliding in before the question was fully out.
Joren didn't open his eyes. He knew this routine.
Silence was consent—to Peter, at least.
With a satisfied sigh, Peter settled in and immediately launched back into his monologue.
"Did you know Oscorp's server cluster supposedly has more computing power than most military installations?"
"And their gene lab—get this—their public site mentions successful extraction of genetic material from arthropods. Not just insects. Arthropods. Imagine the bio-potential!"
Joren's temple throbbed.
Don't be fooled by Peter's quiet act in class. That just means he hasn't found something interesting yet.
Right now, Joren was the interesting thing.
And honestly? He really wanted to take a roll of platinum thread and sew Peter's mouth shut—maybe zip-tie it to his backpack for good measure.
Okay. Breathe. In… out…
After what felt like an eternity of enthusiastic rambling, the bus finally pulled up to the Oscorp Tower.
The students poured out, gasping at the sight.
Joren stepped off last and looked up.
The building was extravagant—sleek, imposing, almost arrogant. It didn't quite rival Stark Tower, but it tried.
A short-haired woman in a crisp white lab coat greeted them with a warm smile.
"Welcome, Midtown!" she said. "I'm Dr. Raman, your guide for today."
She led the group through security and into a vast, sunlit atrium—gleaming floors, glass walls, and the quiet hum of cutting-edge tech just out of sight.
The air hummed with the sterile buzz of advanced technology.
"Osborn Industries' mission," Dr. Raman announced with unmistakable pride, "is to use science to improve the future of mankind."
Joren lingered at the back of the student group, utterly bored.
The glaring lights, the crowded corridors, Dr. Raman's rehearsed rhetoric—it all grated on him.
All he wanted was a quiet corner to disappear into until the tour was over.
"Alright, students!" Dr. Raman clapped his hands together. "Now for the main event."
He led them into a massive sightseeing elevator.
"We're heading to Osborn's proudest achievement: the Interspecies Genetics Laboratory."
The doors slid open.
Before them stretched a gleaming, high-tech lab, bathed in cool blue light. A collective gasp rippled through the students.
"My God—what is that?"
"Is that a spider? It's enormous!"
Dr. Raman strode to a reinforced glass display case.
Inside, fifteen compact, eco-friendly enclosures glowed under focused spotlights.
"That's right," he said. "These are our most successful creations to date: fifteen genetically modified 'super spiders.'"
"We've spliced their DNA with traits from other species—the camouflage of chameleons, the leaping power of fleas, the exoskeletal strength of beetles."
Peter Parker stood frozen, eyes wide. He fumbled out his old film camera and started snapping photos like a man possessed.
"Incredible!" he whispered. "This is… a rhapsody of Darwin and Mendel!"
So engrossed was he that he'd completely forgotten about watching Joren.
Yale, yale…
Joren sighed inwardly.
He couldn't wait to leave.
"Next," Dr. Raman continued, "we'll use holographic imaging to demonstrate how spider DNA might integrate with human chromosomes."
The students followed him toward a large circular platform at the center of the lab.
Perfect.
Joren took a silent step back, turned, and slipped out of the laboratory without a sound.
The corridors of Osborn Industries were as cold and sterile as a hospital—white walls, polished floors, silence pressing in like a weight.
Hands in his pockets, Joren wandered aimlessly, scanning for a secluded spot to wait out the rest of the tour.
He paused outside an office with frosted glass doors.
From within, muffled voices rose in a heated argument—barely audible to ordinary ears, but crystal clear to Joren, his senses sharpened by the ripple energy humming beneath his skin.
"The countdown clock is ticking, Dr. Connors!"
The voice was sharp, cold—unyielding.
"I will never conduct experiments on humans!"
This one trembled with exhaustion and defiance.
"The decay-rate algorithm is still flawed! It's unstable!"
"Norman Osborn is dying! He doesn't have time to indulge your academic perfectionism!"
A heavy silence followed.
Then, quieter, haunted:
"What if I create a monster? What then, Raga?"
Dr. Connors' voice was raw with inner conflict.
"Then you've failed," the other man shot back. "Think about your funding. Your lab. That arm."
"If he doesn't survive… we all die."
Yale, yale…
Joren tugged the brim of his hat lower over his eyes.
A dying CEO.
A one-armed scientist on the edge.
Ruthless corporate overseers.
Classic.
He turned to leave—
—but the office door clicked open.
A man stepped out, eyes still burning with suppressed fury.
Their gazes met for half a second.
Raga's eyes narrowed, flickering with suspicion—but seeing only a student in an odd, dramatic outfit, he dismissed him with a frown and strode off down the hall.
Joren watched him vanish around the corner.
Then, slowly, he turned back toward the closed frosted door.
Behind it, he could feel it—the crushing weight of Connors' despair, thick as smoke in the air.