The next morning.
Joren stood at the school gate, hands in his pockets, waiting for the bus.
An invisible boundary seemed to surround him.
Do not approach.
He would rather spend the day in the library studying sperm whale ecology than attend a crowded school excursion.
"Hey! Joren!"
Peter Parker jogged over, backpack slung over one shoulder, camera hanging from his neck.
Joren glanced at him but said nothing.
This boy's devotion to science bordered on religious zeal.
Peter stepped closer anyway.
"I recalculated everything last night. The fork's trajectory wasn't a normal parabola — it was more like…"
Joren spoke without looking at him.
"More like what?"
Peter pushed up his glasses, eyes shining.
"Like it was nudged by an invisible hand."
A beat.
"You know something, don't you?"
Joren lowered his hat brim and turned away.
"I don't know."
Those three words again.
Peter felt like he had punched a pillow.
He was not discouraged.
Not far away, Marcus and several football players stood in a tight circle, glancing toward Joren.
Thompson had not returned to school.
Rumor said he had developed a high fever, vomiting, and severe diarrhea after going home yesterday.
The doctor's diagnosis:
Acute gastroenteritis.
Food allergy.
Creamy pasta intolerance.
The absurd cause elevated Thompson from school tough guy to campus legend overnight.
On the bus to Oscorp Industries
Joren chose the last row by the window.
He closed his eyes, hoping to shut out the noise of the world.
It failed.
Someone sat beside him.
Peter Parker.
"Is this seat taken?"
Joren didn't respond. Peter took that as permission.
Peter exhaled in relief and immediately began talking.
"You know Oscorp's distributed server grid reportedly rivals military systems…"
"I'm really hoping to see the gene lab. Their website mentions successful arthropod gene integration—"
A dull pressure formed behind Joren's eyes.
Never mistake Peter's quiet classroom demeanor for silence.
He simply lacks interest.
When interested, he is unstoppable.
Joren briefly considered sewing Peter's mouth shut with Star Platinum.
…Deep breath.
Calm.
After an agonizingly long ride, the bus arrived.
Students gasped as they stepped out.
Joren looked up.
The Oscorp tower rose in polished steel and glass — sleek, modern, aggressively futuristic.
Even Stark Tower would acknowledge the competition.
A short-haired woman in a white lab coat greeted them warmly.
"Welcome, Midtown High students. I'm Dr. Raman, your guide today."
She led them through security and into a vast, luminous atrium.
Technology radiated from every surface.
"Oscorp's mission," she said proudly, "is to use science to improve humanity's future."
Joren walked at the back of the group.
Crowds.
Bright lights.
Scripted enthusiasm.
Exhausting.
He just needed a quiet corner to wait out the visit.
"Now, students, the highlight of today's tour."
Dr. Raman ushered them into a massive glass observation elevator.
"We will visit Oscorp's interspecies genetics laboratory."
The doors opened.
The lab revealed itself.
Students gasped.
"My God…"
"Is that a spider?!"
Dr. Raman approached a glass display array.
Inside were fifteen sealed ecospheres.
"That's correct," she said. "Our genetically modified spiders."
"We have integrated adaptive traits from multiple species — chameleon chromatophore camouflage, flea-level jumping mechanics, enhanced tensile strength modeled after beetle exoskeletal proteins."
Peter Parker froze in awe.
He raised his old camera and began snapping photos rapidly.
"This is extraordinary… Darwin and Mendel in one experiment…"
He vanished into scientific ecstasy, forgetting Joren entirely.
Joren sighed internally.
He did not want to remain here.
"…Next, we will demonstrate the theoretical compatibility between arachnid DNA and human chromosomes using holographic projection…"
Dr. Raman successfully captured the students' full attention.
They gathered around a circular projection platform.
Perfect timing.
Joren silently stepped backward, turned, and left the laboratory.
Oscorp's internal corridors felt like a hospital.
White.
Sterile.
Cold.
Joren wandered aimlessly, hands in pockets, searching for a quiet place to wait until departure.
As he passed a frosted-glass office door—
Raised voices penetrated the soundproofing.
Ordinary ears would miss it.
But Joren's enhanced perception caught every word.
"The countdown is ticking, Dr. Connors."
The voice was cold, impatient.
"I will not proceed to human trials."
Another voice — strained, exhausted, resolute.
"The decay-rate algorithm is unstable."
"Norman Osborn is dying," the first voice snapped. "He doesn't have time for academic caution."
Silence.
"What if I create a monster?" Connors asked quietly.
"What then, Raja?"
"You fail," Raja replied. "Think about your funding. Your lab. Your arm."
A long pause.
"If Osborn dies," Raja continued softly, "we all lose everything."
Joren adjusted the brim of his hat.
A dying CEO.
A desperate one-armed scientist.
A ruthless corporate operative.
Classic narrative structure.
He turned to leave.
The office door clicked open.
A sharp-eyed man stepped out, anger still etched across his face.
Their gazes met briefly.
Raja frowned, studying Joren for half a second — then dismissed him.
Just another student.
He walked away down the corridor.
Joren remained still.
Behind the frosted glass, he could feel it clearly:
Despair.
And the heavy weight of an impossible decision resting on the shoulders of Dr. Curt Connors.