"A wise decision," Aaron said, the faint, approving smile never reaching his eyes. He stood, a gesture of dominance in the small space, and clapped a heavy hand on Norman's shoulder. The CEO flinched almost imperceptibly. "You're a man of vision, Norman. You've just chosen the only path that leads to a future. In a year—no, in months—you'll look back on this moment as the dawn of your true legacy."
He paced slowly, his voice taking on a paternal, almost patronizing tone that made Norman's teeth grind. "Work diligently. Manage the company well. Fulfill your duties. In return, you'll receive more than you ever dared to dream: vitality, influence, security for your son. I have great expectations for you."
Norman felt a dizzying sense of dislocation. The words, the posture, the very chair—they were all his. He was being conscripted into his own empire.
"Then… sir," Norman began, the title foreign and bitter on his tongue, "what are your immediate directives?"
Aaron paused, his gaze turning inward as his Superior Cognitive Matrix organized priorities into a swift, executable list.
"First. Corporate headquarters. The primary seat of Osborn Industries will be relocated. We can maintain a significant presence here, but the central nerve center must be moved to a new, secure city. New York is untenable as a main base."
Norman blinked, thrown. The man's Eastern features explained the impulse, but not the reasoning. "May I ask why, sir? New York is the financial and logistical heart of—"
"Because it's a target," Aaron interrupted flatly. "It's a lightning rod for chaos. I have no intention of seeing my primary asset—our primary asset—reduced to rubble because a parade of gods, aliens, or synthezoids decides to have a disagreement in midtown. This city is a strategic vulnerability. I want the core operations somewhere… quieter. More defensible. A place where the sky doesn't regularly rain Chitauri or drop hammer-wielding demigods."
Norman's mind, already reeling, processed this not as paranoia, but as a terrifyingly pragmatic assessment of recent global events (Stark's very public battles) and a hint of knowledge about things yet to come.
Tool, he thought again, the word now carrying a layer of cold, strategic value. He sees the company as a tool to be kept in a safe box.
He gave a stiff nod. "Understood. I'll have a feasibility study and location analysis prepared."
"Good. Second. Immediate R&D focus. Assemble your most discreet and capable biochem team. Their sole priority is to reverse-engineer and prepare for mass production of the regenerative accelerant I've given you. Concurrently, you will receive a detailed procurement list via secure channels. You are to leverage every corporate, logistical, and covert resource at your disposal to acquire every item on that list, with maximum speed and discretion. Scientific progress is a long-term benefit. Fulfilling my immediate needs is your primary function."
Norman absorbed the command, the hierarchy now brutally clear. The miracle drug was a carrot for the company and the world. The 'procurement list' was the real work. He was being transformed from a visionary into a quartermaster for a being with unknown appetites. "It will be done. I will establish a dedicated, compartmentalized division for acquisitions."
"Third. Corporate governance. There will be one unified voice in this company. Yours, speaking for me. I am aware of your… contentious relationship with the board and minor shareholders. Their influence ends now. I don't care about their stock portfolios, their family names, or their proxies. Consolidate control. Make them irrelevant."
Norman's eyes narrowed. This was a minefield he'd navigated for years.
"To what extent, sir?" he asked, his voice carefully neutral.
Aaron looked at him, the unspoken hanging in the air. "You are the majority shareholder. Use the leverage that affords you. Buy them out, pressure them, outmaneuver them. I want a clean, legally defensible transition to absolute control. No messy, public scandals. No complications that draw the wrong kind of attention from regulatory bodies or, worse, intelligence agencies. Just a quiet, corporate realignment. You have the skills for this. Apply them."
The clarification was a relief and a new kind of pressure. He wasn't being asked to become a murderer, but a ruthless corporate raider in his own house. It was a battle he understood, but one he would now have to fight with unprecedented ferocity and speed.
"It will be handled."
Aaron seemed satisfied. He gestured Norman closer. Puzzled, the older man took a step forward. Aaron placed his hand squarely over Norman's heart.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, Norman felt a peculiar, draining sensation, not of blood or energy, but of something more fundamental—a deep-seated wrongness, a constant, low-grade biological dread he had lived with since childhood, simply… pulled away. It was like a knot in his soul he hadn't fully acknowledged was suddenly untied. The chronic fatigue that came from fighting his own DNA seemed to lessen. His breath came easier.
"You may go," Aaron said, removing his hand as if he'd done nothing more than check for a pulse. "The Osborn genetic degradation is no longer a factor in your lifespan. Consider it a signing bonus."
Norman stumbled back a half-step, his hand flying to his chest.
"That's… it?" The disbelief was total. A lifetime of fear, of desperate research, undone in a silent touch. No serum, no surgery, no agonizing process. It was anti-climax as a form of absolute power.
"Did you expect fanfare? It was a corrupted code in your biological program. I deleted it." Aaron waved dismissively. "Now, go. You have a company to restructure and a list to fill."
Norman Osborn walked out of his own high-security laboratory like a sleepwalker. Employees nodded, saying "Good evening, Mr. Osborn," their voices echoing hollowly. He didn't know if he was mourning the empire he had just signed away or marveling at the casual godhood that had just rewritten his fate.
He emerged onto the street. The sky was a deep twilight, bruised with the same strange clouds from earlier. Yet, to Norman, the fading light seemed different. Not an ending, but a peculiar, uncertain beginning. The sun had set on Norman Osborn, Industrialist.
What would rise in its place?
A loyal steward to a mysterious power?
A prisoner in a gilded cage of his own making?
He repeated the name in his mind, a silent incantation. Aaron. His life, his son's future, the very destiny of the company that bore his name—all of it now hinged on the will of this impossible man. The path ahead forked sharply: one led to an abyss of servitude and unknown perils; the other, perhaps, to a heaven of unimaginable power and longevity. Both were charted by the same hand.
Back in the now-empty lab, Aaron didn't watch him go. His work here was done. The framework was set. He had no fear of Norman reneging. The cure was both a gift and a shackle, a demonstration of power so complete that defiance was rendered illogical.
Where would he run? And from what?
Aaron could find him anywhere. The Primal Furnace had tasted the unique signature of Norman's ailment; it could find its source again across any distance.
He exited Oscorp by the same unseen paths he had entered, becoming a shadow once more against the electric night of a city blissfully unaware that one of its corporate pillars had just, quietly, changed hands. The first major piece was on the board. The game, whatever it was, had truly begun.