I drop my backpack next to the desk with a heavy, defeated thud, and stand there for a second. Part of me wishes the bag would unzip itself and do the work for me. It doesn't, obviously. So I drag the chair out, sit down, and peel open the folder Midtown has so generously filled with three weeks' worth of work. Because nothing says welcome back from a near-death experience like a mountain of homework.
It's not even one subject. It's everything. Geometry, Biology, English, World History—an entire cross-section of academic suffering, lovingly preserved on crumpled worksheets and photocopies that smell vaguely like printer ink and despair.
I exhale, long and slow, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes. My brain already feels like it's leaking out my ears just trying to look at all this. And the worst part?
I'm not even starting yet. I'm stalling, because of one goddamn sentence.
"You might've hit the jackpot, man."
Why did he have to say that?
It keeps floating back in, circling like a fly that won't leave me alone. Not in a serious way. Not even in a particularly Harry way. He grinned when he said it. He knew what he was doing. But still—still. It stuck. It lodged itself in the back of my head like gum under a desk, and now every time I try to focus on quadratic equations or osmosis or whatever the hell Emerson was talking about in that essay, all I can hear is Harry's voice, smug and amused and perfectly oblivious.
You might've hit the jackpot, man.
I want to throw my head through this desk.
Instead, I crack open the first binder, grab a pencil, and force myself to start on the math. Because if I don't, this pile is going to outlive me.
Fucking hell.
That was not what I wanted to hear come out of Harry's mouth. Of all the things he could've said. He could've said MJ was cute. He could've made a joke. He could've said nothing. But no—he had to use that line. That specific, stupid, iconic line. Like the universe gave him a script with one job: emotionally sabotage me.
It's so dumb. It's a throwaway comment. Harry doesn't know what it means. Not really. But it hit me like a brick to the teeth. Because I do know what it means. I know exactly where it comes from. I know the weight of it. And for a second—for just a flicker—I felt like I was watching the rails snap off the track.
Why the fuck did he have to say it?
No. No, don't even think about it.
For god's sake, do not think about it.
You are twenty-four. You are not fourteen, no matter what your bone structure and backpack say.
You are twenty-four.
Do. Not. Even. Think it.
Shit, I might kill him. No, don't get mad at Harry. He doesn't know-nobody does. Peter's fourteen, and it was probably a joke.
Well, it doesn't matter if it was a joke, it still makes me sick to my stomach to comprehend it. Why can't I just be friends with someone? That's possible, right? Come on, "Parker," focus dammit.
I shake my head, turning back to the work on my desk.
Right, focus.
I grab the Geometry worksheet first.
I crack the textbook open and skim the chapter—slowly at first, like my brain needs a warm-up lap just to remember what a transversal is. It's been years since I touched any of this. I find the example problem, line it up against the worksheet, and work through the first proof with all the cautious precision of a guy trying to pick a lock he's only pretty sure won't explode.
Then I check it.
Then I check it again.
Then I triple-check it, just to be safe.
Next is Biology. Somehow worse. The entire section on meiosis reads like someone threw every science word they knew into a blender and called it a study guide. I bounce between the glossary and the diagrams, translating it line by line like I'm trying to decode an alien language using duct tape and blind optimism.
But I get through it. Two whole assignments.
Two more than I thought I'd manage.
And just as I start mentally squaring up against the third one like it's some kind of miniboss, I hear her voice from downstairs.
"Peter! Dinner!"
I exhale, drop the pencil like it personally wronged me, and sink back in the chair.
Saved by the aunt.
"Coming!" I call back, already on my feet. I glance at the stack of assignments—still monstrous, still judging me from across the desk—but I give it a nod, like, I see you. You'll get yours.
Dinner might be a break.
But the night?
The night's just getting started.
That evening, I'm sitting on the roof with only a textbook, a notebook, and my last hopes and dreams because this is a lot to deal with. God, I hope Anna doesn't see me. The last thing I want is her calling May.
It's not even the work, really. Okay—it's partly the work. But mostly, it's the fact that my brain's been doing mental gymnastics all day and now expects me to solve triangle proofs like I'm some kind of academic Spider-Man. Which I'm not.. Yet. Hopefully.
God, I hope Anna doesn't see me. The last thing I need is her calling May like "Your nephew's having an episode on the shingles."
I just wanted fresh air. That's all. Some kind of reprieve where the walls weren't closing in and the light wasn't that awful, yellow ceiling glare that somehow makes me feel like I'm in detention even when I'm not. The porch light wasn't cutting it either—too dim, too buggy, and definitely still within range of being "checked on."
So now I'm here. On the roof. Cross-legged, textbook open, pencil dangling in one hand, and trying to figure out how angle C connects to angle F.
I'm up there for about another twenty minutes, watching the sun bleed out across the horizon like someone knocked over a jar of peach and violet paint. It's quiet up here. Just the sound of distant traffic, the occasional bark, and the steady scratch of my pencil against paper as I pretend to understand what a corresponding angle is.
Then, I hear it.
"Peter?"
I glance over.
There's a window open next door—second floor, facing mine. MJ's leaning on the sill, one elbow propped up casually like she's been there a minute. Her ponytail's a little looser than it was earlier, like the wind's been playing with it. She looks genuinely curious.
"Hey," I say, lifting a hand in a little wave.
She tilts her head.
"What are you doing up there?"
"Homework," I reply, holding the textbook up like a flag of surrender. "Not a cry for help, I swear."
That gets a small laugh out of her—just a little huff through her nose, but I'll take it.
"You always study on rooftops?"
"Couldn't tell ya," I smile, poking the side of my head.
"Right…" she lowers her head, again. "I'll stop asking that eventually, I promise."
I grin, feeling the corners of my mouth tug up despite myself.
"No rush."
She watches me for a moment, like she's weighing whether to say more or just let it sit.
Then she sighs and leans back, resting her forearms on the windowsill.
"Honestly, you look like you could use a break."
I glance down at the textbook, then back up at her.
"Yeah, tell me about it."
She smirks. "Well, if you ever want to study somewhere with better lighting and fewer falling hazards, my porch is not too far."
I raise an eyebrow. I'm not sure whether I want to take that offer up. After my freakout earlier, I don't think I should push the matter further.
"I'll keep it in mind."
She nods, like she gets it. Doesn't press.
"Cool," she says softly, almost like she's filing it away more than anything.
A pause stretches between us. Not awkward. Not yet. Just… quiet.
She glances down, fiddles with a loose thread on the window curtain. "Well. I'll let you get back to it."
"Yeah," I say, tapping the edge of the notebook with my pencil. "Big night of thrilling academic success ahead."
MJ grins.
"Try not to fall off the roof."
"No promises."
She lingers just a second longer—like maybe she wants to say more—but then gives a two-finger wave and pulls the window mostly shut, not slamming it but letting it click closed with finality.
And just like that, I'm alone again.
Just me, the textbook, and a mind that won't shut up.
I sit there long after MJ's window closes, letting the pencil rest idle in my hand. The sky shifts slowly, colors draining from warm peach and violet into deepening shades of indigo and midnight. The sun slips completely below the horizon, and night stretches itself across the city like a thick, velvet blanket.
The city lights flicker on one by one — street lamps, apartment windows, distant car headlights weaving through the streets. From up here, the noise softens to a distant hum, like a lullaby for the restless. Queens feels alive but calm, caught between the chaos of the day and the stillness of night.
I lean back on my hands and let out a slow breath, chest rising and falling. I look out over the rooftops, the patchwork of buildings, the glowing windows like tiny stars pinned against the dark.
It's beautiful.
And for the first time since I woke up in this body, I get why Peter loved this city so damn much. I might not understand everything about it yet — the people, the dangers, the history — but this view, this moment, it's enough to die for.
Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails—a reminder that this city never really sleeps. But up here, with the night wrapped around me, it feels like the world has paused just long enough for me to catch my breath.
I close the textbook with a grimace, reluctantly admitting it's time to call it a night. Standing up, I scan the rooftop—empty. No wandering eyes, no unwanted audience. Good. I don't need Anna or May catching me doing whatever dumb stunt I'm about to attempt.
I glance over at MJ's window. Curtains drawn tight. Perfect. She won't see this.
I step toward the edge of the roof and peer down at the yard below. It's maybe a little higher than I'd like. Okay, a lot higher. Heights aren't exactly my thing. Well, not exactly. It's not heights themselves — it's falling. The idea of landing wrong and breaking something stupidly.
And yeah, I'm used to breaking bones. But I'm not eager to add a new "fun" injury to my collection just yet.
I mean... What's the point of this rooftop perch if I can't make a little leap? Might as well try it. Besides, I'm hoping Peter's legendary healing factor is as real as the spiders that bit him.
I take a deep breath, steady my nerves.
One foot forward.
Then the other.
It's not quite a skyscraper, but I suppose every Spider-Man has to take a leap of faith, right?
The world seems to slow down as I launch myself off the edge.
A sudden buzz prickles at the back of my neck—spider-sense kicking in like some weird built-in alarm system. Panic floods my chest, but I focus on the fall.
I clutch the textbook and notebook tight under my right arm, bracing for impact.
And somehow—somehow—I do a front flip midair.
I hit the ground on one knee, hand pressed firmly against the pavement, textbook still in one arm like a trophy.
HOLY SHIT.
I sit there for a second, heart hammering, the rush of adrenaline sharp and loud in my ears.
Did I just... stick the landing?
I actually might have.
I push off the ground to stand, chest still pounding—and then, because of course, my foot catches on something invisible, and down I go, face first into the grass.
"Of course…" I mutter, mouth full of dirt and my shattered dignity.
Because why wouldn't I fall after doing something like that? Way to keep my ego in check, universe.
I stand up, wiping the dirt off of myself only to see the front door open to the Watsons', and MJ steps out. She doesn't notice me at first. She's in her pajamas, moving to a chair on the porch. MJ looks a bit off. I don't know, like she's got something on her mind.
I drop my textbook and notebook carefully on the bottom step, the worn wood creaking under the weight. The night air feels cooler now, carrying the faint scent of cut grass and something faintly sweet—maybe lilacs from a neighbor's garden.
MJ's sitting on the porch chair, knees pulled tight to her chest, arms wrapped around her legs like she's holding herself together. Her pajamas aren't the typical flannel kind—more like soft cotton, loose and comfortable, the kind that's clearly seen a dozen restless nights. The fabric wrinkles where her elbows press in, and the pale blue of the top makes her pale skin look even softer under the porch light's glow.
Her hair's a little tousled now, strands escaping the ponytail to frame her face in a way that makes her look… less guarded, somehow. She's staring out into the street, but her eyes aren't really seeing it. There's a weight there—something heavy but quiet, like she's carrying it all on the inside.
I clear my throat and tap the wood beam beside her. The sudden noise snaps her out of whatever she's wrapped up in. Her eyes flicker toward me, surprise flashing briefly before she masks it with that familiar half-smile—the one that says, "I wasn't expecting company."
"Hey," I say, voice softer than usual.
She straightens a little, but still keeps her legs hugged close, like the chair's the only thing grounding her.
"Hey," she replies, voice low.
The porch light flickers once, casting brief shadows across her face, and for a moment, I just watch her—not wanting to pry, but wanting her to know I'm here.
"What are you doing here?" she asks. I can't help but notice the softness, almost withdrawn tone of her voice. It's almost like she's on the verge of crying.
"Well, I was seeing if that offer went beyond studying." I say, not moving from my spot.
MJ doesn't say anything.
"Okay... I saw you come out, and I guess I wanted to talk to you."
She blinks slowly, like she's processing more than just my words. The faintest tremor catches the edge of her lip before she clears her throat.
"Talk, huh?" she says, voice still low but steadying. "About what?"
I shuffle my feet, suddenly aware of how loud the night feels—the crickets, the distant hum of traffic, the faint buzz of a streetlamp above us. It's like the whole world's waiting for an answer.
"Honestly? I don't really know," I admit, voice rougher than I want it to be.
I take a slow step forward and lower myself onto the railing below her. The rough wood presses against my back, steadying me after that not-so-graceful fall. She's perched just above, legs curled close, arms wrapped around her knees like a shield. Somehow, that makes me feel less awkward.
She looks down at me, her voice soft but pointed. "Seriously, Peter... what are you doing here?"
I meant what I said, I really don't know. I guess I wanted to extend the same kindness she gave me earlier.
I run a hand through my hair, shrugging.
"Like I said, I wanted to talk to you."
Her gaze flickers away for a moment, like she's wrestling with something she doesn't want to say. Then she meets my eyes again, voice quieter now.
"I'm not really in the mood to talk."
The pause stretches. I glance toward my house, then back at her.
"If you want me to go, I can."
She shakes her head, but there's no smile.
"I didn't say that."
Her words hang in the air, fragile and a little hesitant. And just like that, the quiet between us feels less like a wall, and more like an invitation.
I settle into the silence, letting the night stretch out between us. For a few minutes, I don't say a word—honestly, not sure what to say anyway. The crickets chirp steadily, and somewhere in the distance, a siren wails like a reminder that life keeps moving.
Then, something catches my eye. The faintest glimmer of redness rims the corners of MJ's eyes, subtle but unmistakable. Like she's been wiping away tears.
"MJ?" My voice is quiet, cautious. "Are you okay?"
She gives a small nod, like she's trying to agree with me, trying to convince herself more than me. But there's that tremor again—right at the edge of her lip, betraying everything she's not saying.
I push up from the porch floor and lean against the railing beside her, a little closer now. Not close enough to crowd her, but enough that I'm not just a background noise in her evening anymore.
The wood's cool against my back, grounding. My palms itch with the urge to fidget, to say something stupid, or to run—but I don't. I stay.
I'm not good at this. Never have been. Comforting people isn't my specialty—I'm more of a nervous joke guy or someone who panics at the exact wrong time. But I can't just sit here and pretend everything's fine when clearly it's not.
After too long debating it, I let out a quiet sigh and glance her way.
"You don't have to pretend with me, okay?" I say. "I'll admit, I'm not the best at this, but… I'm here. So, if something's eating at you, I'm all ears."
She doesn't answer right away.
Her arms are still curled around her knees, knuckles faintly white where she's gripping tighter than she probably realizes. Her eyes don't meet mine—just stay fixed somewhere off in the dark, like there's something only she can see.
"I shouldn't let it get to me," she murmurs finally, her voice quiet. Flat. "It's just… he called earlier. My dad."
I don't move. Just lean slightly closer, not crowding her—just enough so she knows I'm still here.
She swallows hard, eyes still distant.
"He was drunk. Or... I think he was. He always is, lately." A pause, then a shallow breath. "He said they were happy. That everything was fine until I came along."
That lands like a rock in my chest.
She says it like she's quoting a voicemail. Like it's not the first time she's heard it.
There's no drama in the way she delivers it. No tears. Just that same hollow edge I remember from when we walked together—like she's already done all her crying behind a locked bathroom door somewhere, and now there's only the ache left behind.
I don't say anything.
Instead, I just stay where I am—leaning on the porch railing, letting the silence hold its shape between us.
"Peter, it... it hurts," she says, barely above a whisper.
I glance toward her again—and that's when I see them. Fresh tears slipping quietly down her cheeks, like they've been waiting for permission to fall.
Her voice cracks as she asks, "Why does he hate me?"
It's not rhetorical. Not said with bitterness. Just raw confusion. Like a kid trying to solve a math problem that never had an answer to begin with.
And God, I want to say something. Anything. I want to tell her it's not her fault, that her dad's a coward, that no child deserves to carry blame for grown-up failures. But my mouth won't move. My chest feels tight.
Fuck, I hate being in these situations. I don't even realize I'm doing it, but I find myself wrapping my arms around her, bringing her into a hug.
She doesn't pull away. That's the part that gets me.
She just lets herself fold into me—quiet at first, but then the sob hits, deep and shaking, and she clutches the front of my shirt like it's the only thing keeping her tethered to the Earth.
I don't know what I'm doing. I really don't. I've never been great at comforting people—never had the right words, never knew when to speak or when to stay silent. But right now, it doesn't matter.
My arms wrap tighter around her, and I rest my chin lightly on top of her head. I can feel her shoulders trembling against me.
She smells like lavender shampoo and the faint musk of worn cotton, and something in my chest aches because she shouldn't have to feel like this. Not tonight. Not ever.
"I'm sorry," she whispers into my chest. "I didn't mean to dump this on you."
"You didn't," I murmur. "You didn't dump anything."
She sniffles, but doesn't let go.
I rub my thumb gently along her arm—slow, steady, grounding. I don't even think about it. It just feels like the only thing I can do while she breathes ragged into my shirt. Her hand still clutches the fabric like it's the only thing keeping her upright, and I let her. I let her hold on as long as she needs.
The porch light hums quietly above us. A car drives by down the block, tires whispering along the asphalt, but otherwise it's just the two of us here in this still, quiet night.
After a while—maybe minutes, maybe longer—I finally manage to find something to say. Something I won't regret.
"MJ…" I whisper, voice low and careful, "if he can't appreciate you, that's on him. It's not your fault, okay?"
She doesn't move, but her fingers twitch against my side.
"As far as I'm concerned," I continue, "he doesn't deserve to have a daughter like you if that's how he feels."
Her breath stutters, like my words hit something locked up for far too long.
But she still doesn't let go.
I only found those words because I had to say them to myself before. My dad wasn't around much, and some days, I wondered why I wasn't enough for him to stay. It stung even more knowing he had another kid years later, and called them his 'first kid.'
It's rarely the kid that's ever the problem.
She sniffles, and in a whisper that I can barely catch, says:
"Thank you…"
I may not be good at this, but I know what it's like being in that position. I didn't get a chance to let my emotions out over this, but if I can help her with it, then that's perfectly fine. Even if she ends up crying all over one of my brand new shirts.
Eventually—after what might be a minute, or maybe two—she pulls back. Not abruptly, not like she regrets it—just like the storm inside her has finally passed. At least for tonight.
Her eyes are still red, lashes damp, but now her face is red too—a blush creeping in around her cheeks as she avoids my gaze. She clears her throat, rubbing the back of her wrist across her face as if she can erase what just happened.
"Thank you, Peter… I mean it."
Her voice is steadier now, but there's something delicate beneath it—something raw and real that she's still holding onto, even if she's trying not to show it.
I don't say anything right away. I just smile.
"You don't have to thank me," I say quietly. "Least I could do."
She finally looks at me—just for a second—and the way her eyes meet mine? There's a kind of quiet understanding there.
She exhales slowly, like she's been holding her breath for longer than she realized.
Then, as if to reset everything, she stretches her legs out and stands. Her movements are slower than usual, like she's still shaking off the emotional weight.
"Sorry about your shirt," she murmurs, glancing at the wrinkled mess of cotton clinging to my chest.
I glance down at it. Yup, it's definitely tear-stained, with bits of make-up mixed in.
"Eh," I shrug. "Gives it character."
That gets the tiniest laugh from her, and for a second, the heaviness lifts.
We stand there together, not quite brushing shoulders, watching the quiet street stretch out in front of us.
"Are you going to be okay?" I ask, my voice soft as I glance at the time and realize how late it's gotten.
MJ wipes her face one last time with the edge of her sleeve and nods, a little too quickly.
"You sure?" I press gently, not accusing—just checking.
"I will," she says, then adds with a small, tired smile, "I'm going to stay out here a bit longer. That way Anna doesn't see me like this."
"Okay." I nod. "I think I'm gonna head home… don't want May getting worried."
She gives a small huff of acknowledgment, the barest ghost of a laugh, but it's real.
She shifts on her feet, like she's not quite sure what to do next. Then she looks at me—really looks at me.
"Thank you again," she says softly.
I smile, tilting my head just a little.
"That's what friends are for, right?"
Before I can react, she steps forward and wraps her arms around me again. It's gentler this time—less desperate, more grateful. I hug her back without hesitation.
"Goodnight, MJ," I murmur.
"Goodnight, Peter."
I step down from the porch and start walking back toward the house, the grass cool beneath my feet and the night air brushing gently against my face.
But just before I reach the door, something tugs at me, and I glance back.
She's still standing there, arms loosely folded now, watching me go. There's no smile, no wave—just her, quiet and present in the moment.
"Hey, MJ…" I call.
Her head lifts a little.
"Yeah?"
I let a grin tug at one side of my mouth.
"I might take you up on that study offer next time."
This time, she does smile.
"I'll be here," she says.
And with that, I head inside.
I sit down on my bed, the springs creaking softly beneath me as I let out a breath I didn't realize I was still holding. The room is dim, lit only by the faint orange glow leaking in from the streetlamp outside my window. It casts soft shadows across the walls, turning everything just a little more surreal.
I can still feel MJ's hug.
The warmth of it lingers like heat from a blanket that's been pulled away. The weight of her pain settles somewhere deep in my chest. The crack in her voice when she asked why he hated her—it hits harder now than it did in the moment. I wasn't ready for how much that would stay with me.
As I stare at the ceiling, I find myself thinking about something I hadn't planned on.
Maybe… I was meant to cross paths with MJ.
I mean, sure—every Peter Parker has his MJ. That's almost a law of the multiverse, right? But maybe it's not always some tragic romance with tears and broken promises and too many missed chances.
Maybe this version—my version—can be different.
I roll onto my side, the pillow cool against my cheek, finally ready to let the day go. Sleep is already starting to tug at the edges of my mind when—
Bzzt bzzt.
The phone buzzes on my nightstand, cutting through the silence. I groan softly, reach for it, and squint at the screen.
Harry…
I sit up, rubbing a hand over my face before answering.
"Hello?"
"Hey, Pete…" Harry's voice is quiet, hesitant. "Hope I'm not waking you."
"I just laid down, but it's fine," I say, straightening. "What's up, Har?"
There's a pause. Then, "Uh, I—"
"You okay?" I cut in gently, noticing the tension bleeding through the line.
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. It's… it's Dad. Something's going on with him."
I feel my chest tighten, but I don't let my thoughts jump to the worst just yet.
"What do you mean?"
"He's been acting differently since you stopped by the other day. And he just left the penthouse without telling me anything. Didn't even tell me he was leaving."
"Wait—left?" I sit up straighter. "He didn't say anything at all?"
"Nope. He just disappeared. I asked the staff, they didn't know either."
That's not like Norman. Everything I've seen and heard so far tells me he's a man who doesn't do random.
"Okay," I say slowly. "How exactly has he been acting? What's different?"
Harry exhales into the phone, and I hear the scrape of a chair or something shifting on his end.
"He's… I don't know. Shifty. Distant. Jumpy, almost. I've never seen him like this, Pete."
"Could it be health-related?" I ask. "Bad news from a doctor or something?"
"If it is, he didn't tell me," Harry mutters. "But he's been keeping things from me for a while now."
I rest my elbows on my knees, staring at the floor. The shadows stretch long beneath me. Something's not sitting right about this.
"Alright," I say quietly. "Let me think for a minute."
There's a silence between us. Not awkward—just heavy. Like we both know we're circling something bigger than either of us wants to admit.
"This isn't normal, Pete," Harry says, his voice tightening. "He doesn't just leave. Not like that. He always tells me. Or has someone tell me."
"Yeah," I murmur. "I know."
He's nervous, and for good reason. Norman's sick, so if he's hiding something, that could be really bad. Then again, it could be something worse. I immediately think back to the guy in the lobby that I'd seen. Had he been part of Norman's change in behavior? Maybe I need to talk to Norman, if I can get the chance.
"Call me if he comes back, okay?" I ask.
"Sure, no problem." He pauses. Then, in a quieter voice: "Pete… Dad would tell me if his health was declining, right?"
I hesitate.
That hesitation says more than I want it to. I rub my forehead, wishing I had an answer that didn't feel like a coin toss.
"Yeah," I say, because it feels like the thing I'm supposed to say. "I think he would."
But the truth is—I don't know. I've known Norman Osborn for maybe a few hours total. Harry's known him his whole life, and he's not even sure.
"I just don't want to lose him," Harry says finally. His voice drops to a whisper, like saying it too loud might make it real.
My chest tightens, because I get it. That fear? It's not just about sickness—it's about watching someone you love become someone you don't recognize.
"I get it," I say softly. "You're not going to… I'm sure Norman's fine, and he'll be back before you know it."
AS
AS
AS
MEANWHILE
The building was quiet this time of night—quiet in a way only glass and steel could be. Cold. Controlled. The kind of silence that echoed in the bones and clung to the walls like a secret.
Norman Osborn stood in the center of his old office, a place he hadn't set foot in for months—not since he stepped down as CEO to begin treatment. The walls were still lined with accolades and innovation, etched metal plates and framed patents. They stared at him like ghosts.
The city stretched out beyond the glass wall, lights flickering like fireflies over the East River. He didn't care to look at it tonight.
Instead, he waited.
He stood near the bar cart, one hand resting on its edge, the other loosely curled around a heavy tumbler of whiskey. The ice had mostly melted. The drink was warm now, bitter with time.
Norman took a slow sip and let the alcohol burn its way down. His posture was steady, but his eyes kept darting—barely perceptible shifts as he watched the shadows cast by the tall shelves and the darkened corners of the room.
His reflection in the window didn't look like the man who used to command boardrooms. He looked... thinner. Paler. Tired. There was a dull sheen in his eyes—not quite fear, but something adjacent. Dread, maybe.
There was a flicker of movement.
He didn't jump, but he did turn—calmly, mechanically—just in time to see a figure drop silently from the ceiling, landing with a whisper-soft thud against the polished floor.
The man was dressed in black from head to toe. Skin-tight fabric. Tactical gloves. A ski mask obscured his face, but his gait gave him away before the voice did.
"Sorry I'm late," the intruder said, peeling the mask off with practiced ease.
Underneath was the grinning face of Walter Hardy—older now, streaks of gray in his slicked-back hair, but still carrying himself with the kind of sharp confidence that only came from decades of slipping past lasers and locks.
Norman gave the faintest nod.
"You're fine, Walter. Were you successful?"
Walter's grin widened, cocky and dangerous.
"You know me, Norman. The Black Cat always gets his prey."
He slung a small black satchel from his shoulder and unzipped it. From inside, he carefully withdrew a reinforced, temperature-controlled vial—about the size of a thermos—and handed it over like it was a bomb.
"Though, I'll admit… paying me to rob your own company is a strange request."
Norman took the container and held it up to the light, turning it slowly in his hand. The fluid inside shimmered faintly, preserved in whatever solution the Oscorp vaults had been using.
"It might be strange," Norman said, his voice low, grave, "but I promise you—this asset is far too important to fall into the wrong hands."
He unsealed the top with a hiss of released pressure, peeled back the containment lining, and inside… was a spider.
Not just any spider.
The spider.
The one that bit Peter Parker.
Its curled legs were still intact, its red-and-blue markings preserved perfectly. Lifeless, but no less dangerous. It looked like something out of a nightmare—half science project, half divine accident.
Norman stared at it for a long moment, his expression unreadable. The light glinted off the glass, casting a warped silhouette across his face.
Walter shifted on his feet, the silence stretching.
"So," Walter said eventually, "what's the next step?"
Norman sealed the container again and set it down on the edge of the desk with delicate precision. Then he took another sip of whiskey, slower this time.
"I need to make sure this never falls into their hands," he said, more to himself than to Walter. His voice was softer now. Tense. Like he was admitting something aloud for the first time.
Walter arched an eyebrow, brushing invisible dust from his gloves.
"This was Richard's project, wasn't it?"
Norman's expression shifted, almost imperceptibly. He turned back to the window, but his reflection didn't look any steadier than before.
"Yes," he said finally, voice hushed. "It was."
There was a pause, as Norman closed his eyes.
"I would never see his work corrupted."
Walter didn't respond right away. He just watched Norman, carefully. The way his shoulders tensed when he said Richard's name. The weariness that wasn't just physical—it was guilt. It was grief.
"Funny," Walter muttered, stepping away from the desk. "People on the outside think Oscorp was always your baby. But I remember the early days. It was yours and Richard's. He had the soul. You had the spine."
Norman gave the faintest twitch of a smile.
"And now there's too little of either."
He picked up the container again, holding it carefully in one hand, like it might wake up and bite.
Walter took a step closer. His voice was low, but edged with something genuine.
"I know you, Norman. You wouldn't ask me to commit a crime unless you had a damn good reason. I came out of retirement because of you. I swore when my daughter was born that I would never put the claws back on."
His tone sharpened. Concern rippled just beneath the surface.
"Who are these people?"
Norman's eyes darkened with something unspoken.
"I can't tell you, Walter," Norman said finally. His voice had shifted—colder now, distant, like a shadow creeping over a fading light. "But all you need to know is that they were willing to kill Richard and Mary Parker to ensure this spider was never created."
Walter's eyes narrowed, the weight of the truth pressing in like a vice.
"What? They were the ones that killed Richard?"
Norman didn't flinch. Just met his gaze with a hollow calm.
"Yes."
For a moment, Walter said nothing. His jaw tightened. The confident veneer—the veteran thief, the legend of the underworld—slipped, just a little.
"My daughter…" he said slowly, voice quieter now, like he was already imagining worst-case headlines. "Is she in danger?"
Norman turned back to the window, his reflection fractured by the city lights flickering in the glass. He swirled the whiskey in his glass once, then answered without looking:
"So long as your involvement tonight is never discovered... no."
Walter stood still, tension rippling under his skin like a wire pulled taut.
"But if it is?" he asked.
Now Norman looked at him. Just for a second. A tired, weathered glance that carried far too much understanding.
"Then God help us both."