Aaron's casual inspection of the lab was a silent violation. His fingers brushed the casing of a centrifuge, his eyes scanned the chemical notations on a whiteboard, and he peered into a cryogenic storage unit. Each action was calculatedly dismissive, underscoring his absolute control of the space.
Norman Osborn's jaw tightened, a vein pulsing at his temple.
When Aaron finally spoke, his words hung in the sterile air like a surgical blade.
Norman's initial fear curdled into a sharp, boardroom-brand of anger. He subtly shifted his weight, edging toward the door. "A thief? Industrial espionage? Name your price. One million? Ten? I can make it worth your while to walk out that door and forget this address."
Aaron didn't even look at him. He picked up a sealed vial from a cooling rack—a sample of the unstable, milky-green solution that was Norman's life's work and greatest frustration. He swirled it gently, watching the fluid cling to the glass.
Norman lunged forward instinctively, hand outstretched. "Don't! That is highly volatile—!"
Aaron ignored him, holding the vial up to the light. "It makes no difference to me if your name is Norman Osborn, Justin Hammer, or Thanos The Mad Titan."
"Tha—who?" The unfamiliar name threw Norman's bluster off its rails for a split second.
A rival? A code name?
He shook his head, focus snapping back. His fingers found the recessed panic button beneath the edge of the main console. Three minutes. That's all he needed. "You are making a catastrophic error in judgment. Oscorp has contracts with the Department of Defense. General Thaddeus Ross is a personal acquaintance. The repercussions of this intrusion will follow you to any hole on this planet you try to hide in."
"If I were you," Aaron said, finally turning his gaze from the serum to meet Norman's eyes, "I wouldn't waste the energy."
He gestured languidly with his free hand. "By all means. Press it. See what happens."
The utter lack of concern was more terrifying than any threat. It implied a depth of capability Norman couldn't immediately fathom. If this man had bypassed biometric locks and layer-seven security protocols to stroll into the heart of his most secure lab, what were a few armed guards?
A chilling realization settled in his gut: he was not in control here. His hand moved away from the button.
Seeing Norman's defiance crack, Aaron moved to the large, ergonomic chair behind the primary research station and sat down, the implicit power dynamic shifting audibly. Norman was left standing, an unwilling supplicant in his own domain.
"Who are you?" Norman demanded, his voice low and strained. "What is the purpose of this? Do you have any concept of the forces you are provoking?"
His eyes darted to a drawer on his left. Standard issue. A 9mm Glock 19, for the statistically improbable but existentially critical emergency.
Aaron followed his gaze. Without haste, he leaned over, pulled the drawer open, and removed the pistol. He examined it with an air of mild curiosity, then worked the slide, chambering a round with a satisfying click-clack that echoed in the silent lab.
Norman took an involuntary step back, his heart hammering against his ribs. He's going to shoot me. Here. Now.
Aaron raised the pistol, not at Norman, but at his own outstretched left palm. His expression was one of detached experimentation.
"Wait—!" Norman's protest was a choked gasp.
BANG!
The report was deafening in the enclosed space. Acrid gunsmoke tinged the filtered air. Norman flinched, his mind screaming.
A madman. An absolute, Arkham-grade lunatic!
Narrator: ...Oops, wrong verse!
Then, silence. No cry of pain. No spatter of blood.
Aaron unclenched his fist. A flattened, misshapen slug of metal rested in his unmarked palm. He rolled it between his fingers and dropped it onto the polished steel console with a dull clink.
"A mosquito bite has more sting," Aaron remarked, his tone conversational. "You keep this for personal security? This is the foundation of your confidence?"
He shook his head, a teacher disappointed with a pupil's inadequate homework.
"I'd recommend an RPG launcher in the supply closet. Or a phased plasma rifle. This…" He tossed the gun onto the desk, where it skidded to a stop in front of Norman. "…is a child's toy."
Norman stared, his earlier anger and fear dissolving into a cold, profound shock. The evidence was irrefutable. Ballistic immunity. The man had just caught a bullet in his bare hand. All his wealth, his security, his political connections—they were intangible, distant things compared to this visceral, physical impossibility standing before him.
"Your vital signs are erratic," Aaron observed clinically. "Elevated heart rate, adrenal spike, prefrontal cortex activity suggesting panic. Would you like some water? You should sit."
The absurd normality of the suggestion broke the last of Norman's resistance. Numbly, he pulled out the subordinate's chair from a secondary station and sank into it, his eyes never leaving Aaron. The world had just realigned on its axis, and he was no longer at the center.
"Let's revisit the question," Aaron said, leaning forward, his elbows on Norman's desk. "Do you want to live?"
This time, the question held a different, terrifying clarity. Norman's gaze flicked from Aaron's uninjured hand to the vial of green serum still held loosely in the other. A desperate, wild hope clawed its way through the shock. His voice was a dry whisper. "Are you… saying you have it? A stable formula?"
Aaron shook his head once.
Norman's hope plummeted.
Then Aaron continued. "I don't have your formula. But I can perfect it."
He let that hang for a beat, watching the hope reignite in Norman's eyes before delivering the true coup de grâce. "More importantly, I don't need a serum to solve the Osborn genetic degenerative disorder. The hemophilia. The neural decay. I can excise it from your lineage. Permanently."
The air left Norman's lungs in a rush. It was as if Aaron had reached into his chest and squeezed his heart. The real secret, the driving, hidden engine behind all his work, laid bare by a stranger.
Not just the military applications, but the personal, familial curse. His hands, hidden under the desk, clenched into white-knuckled fists.
"How?" The word was torn from him, stripped of all pretense and power. "How could you possibly know that? How could you fix it?"
"The 'how' is my concern," Aaron stated, his voice devoid of negotiation. "Your concern is the price."
Norman's mind, a supercomputer of ambition and paranoia, began calculating. This was not a petty blackmail. This was a paradigm shift. The man wanted something monumental. He thought of money, of stock options, of board seats. He prepared to negotiate from a position of weakened, but still significant, strength.
Aaron leaned back in the chair, the leather creaking. His gaze swept around the high-tech laboratory, the symbol of the Oscorp empire etched on the wall. When he spoke next, his tone was as flat and final as a judge's gavel.
"I don't want a consulting fee. I don't want a vice-presidency. I don't want a percentage."
He let the silence build, holding Norman's horrified, comprehending stare.
"I want Oscorp. The whole apparatus. The research, the patents, the infrastructure, the contracts. I want the keys to the kingdom."
Norman shot to his feet, the chair screeching back. His face, pale moments before, was now flushed with apoplectic rage and disbelief. "You're insane! That is impossible! This company is my life's work! It's my son's inheritance! You might as well ask for the moon!"
"The moon," Aaron replied, unmoved by the outburst, "is currently unclaimed real estate and holds less immediate utility. Oscorp, however, has value. And your life, Dr. Osborn, and the future health of your son Harry… they have a price. I've simply told you what it is. The question is no longer if you can pay. The question is whether you will."