One Month Later

The anniversary of his mother's death hit Y/N harder than he wanted to admit. It wasn't just the day itself, but the memories that clawed their way into his mind like a constant loop—the flash of Scorpion's tail, the sound of her final scream, and the powerless feeling of being unable to save her. Even after four months, the police had nothing, and Mac Gargan was still out there, living freely while Y/N's life remained shattered. 

But for now, he was with Gwen, who had made it her mission to keep him distracted. They sat in a small diner, their food mostly untouched, as she watched him stare at his plate. 

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked gently, her fingers brushing his across the table. 

Y/N shook his head. "Not really." 

"Okay," Gwen said, squeezing his hand. "We don't have to." 

Y/N looked up at her, a faint flicker of warmth in his tired eyes. "I don't deserve you." 

Her brows furrowed. "What are you talking about?" 

"I've been like this for months," he admitted. "Dragging you into my mess... putting up with me can't have been easy. So... thank you." 

Gwen smiled softly, leaning across the table to kiss his cheek. "You don't need to thank me. I care about you, Y/N. And you're not a mess—you're grieving. That's not something you just get over." 

He nodded, though the bitterness in his chest lingered. She could see it, even as he tried to push it down. 

"How's your dad?" she asked tentatively. 

Y/N sighed, his jaw tightening. "Saw him last night. Had to drag him upstairs again." 

"I'm sorry, babe," Gwen said, her voice full of sympathy. 

"I hardly see him anymore," Y/N continued. "He's either locked in his office or out drinking. He hasn't been able to find a job since Oscorp blacklisted him, and the bills keep stacking up. Every day, it's just more of the same." 

Gwen nodded silently, holding his hand again. She didn't try to fix it; she just listened. 

They paid for their food and were about to leave when a familiar voice stopped them. 

"Y/N, Gwen. Been a while." 

Y/N turned, his expression hardening as he saw Harry Osborn standing near the entrance. 

"What do you want, Harry?" Y/N asked flatly. 

"Whoa, man, I just wanted to say I'm sorry." 

"Well, you said it. Bye." 

Gwen gently tugged on Y/N's arm, trying to lead him out, but Harry wasn't done. 

"Hey, look, I get it," Harry said quickly. "I lost my mom when I was a kid too. I know how much that—" 

"Don't," Y/N cut him off. 

Harry hesitated, but then he added, "I just... your dad made that suit, didn't he?" 

Y/N stopped in his tracks, his fists clenching. 

"So you came here to remind me that my mom is dead because of my dad?" he snapped, turning to face Harry. "That he was working under *your* dad, following *his* orders? You think that makes you a good guy, Harry?" 

"Y/N, I didn't—" 

"No, shut up," Y/N spat. "You want to talk about guilt? My dad can't find work because your dad decided to hang him out to dry. We're drowning in unpaid bills, and we might lose our house. Meanwhile, your dad walks free, showing no remorse for what he's done to my family. And you? You've spent years making my life hell, and now you think you can just waltz in here and play nice?" 

Harry stood there, stunned into silence for once. 

"You want to do something nice for me, Harry?" Y/N said, his voice low and cutting. "Leave me the hell alone." 

Without another word, Y/N turned and walked out of the diner, Gwen following close behind. 

Harry stayed where he was, frozen in the middle of the restaurant. For the first time in a long time, he didn't have a snarky comeback. All he could feel was shame.

🕷️

Jacob sat hunched over the bar, staring blankly at the amber liquid swirling in his glass. The faint buzz of chatter and the clinking of glasses around him barely registered. It had been weeks since he'd last stepped foot anywhere other than his office or this bar, and even longer since he'd had a meaningful conversation with his son.

Every night, it was the same. A drink to drown the guilt, another to numb the grief, and a few more to forget the wreckage his life had become. But tonight, it wasn't working.

"If only I hadn't listened to Norman," Jacob muttered under his breath, taking another swig.

But what choice had he really had? Norman Osborn wasn't just a boss; he was *the* boss. Refusing to oversee the Scorpion Project hadn't been an option. At least, that's what Jacob told himself.

And yet, deep down, he knew the truth. His wife's death, his son's pain, his crumbling life—it all led back to that project. To Norman.

Jacob's knuckles tightened around the glass as memories of Oscorp's dark experiments flooded back. The illegal serums, the unethical medical trials, the weaponized suits. He'd known it was wrong, but he'd buried his doubts under the weight of his paycheck.

And now, his wife was gone. Mac Gargan, the monster born of Norman's experiments, had stolen her life. Meanwhile, Gargan somehow ran Scorpo—a *thriving* corporation.

As if to mock him, a Scorpo commercial flickered onto the TV above the bar. Gargan's smug face filled the screen, spouting platitudes about innovation and progress.

Jacob's vision blurred with anger. His breathing quickened. Before he knew it, he slammed his beer bottle onto the counter with a loud *crack*. The room went quiet, patrons turning to stare.

Just then, the door opened, and Aaron Davis strolled in, scanning the room until his eyes landed on Jacob.

"Damn, Jacob," Aaron said, walking over. "You've seen better days. You might wanna slow down before you get yourself into trouble."

Jacob didn't bother looking up. "What do you want, Aaron?" he muttered before taking another long drink.

Aaron gestured to the bartender. "Cut him off."

Jacob scowled, slamming his empty glass on the counter. "Another," he demanded.

The bartender shook his head. "No can do."

Jacob's jaw tightened. "I said—"

"Hey." Aaron grabbed his shoulder. "Calm down, man. Don't make a scene."

Jacob yanked his shoulder free, glaring at him. "Why the hell do you care? What, you here to preach to me now?"

Aaron sighed, leaning against the counter. "I'm here because I've been worried about you. Y/N's worried about you. When's the last time you even saw him?"

Jacob's face faltered, the question hitting harder than any punch. He looked away, gripping the edge of the bar. "I... I don't know how to face him, Aaron. Not after what I've done. I'm responsible for all of this."

"Yeah, it's messy," Aaron admitted. "But hiding in here every night isn't gonna fix it. I've been there, man. You remember the night Jeff died?"

Jacob nodded stiffly, the memory surfacing against his will.

"That tore Miles apart," Aaron continued. "Tore *all* of us apart. For a long time, I thought I'd never be able to fix what I'd done. But I had to step up—for Rio, for Miles. Keep the family together. And you need to do the same for Y/N before he goes off the rails, or worse."

Jacob let out a bitter laugh. "You? Preaching about responsibility? You're just a common criminal, Aaron. I know what you do, so don't sit here and act like some kind of role model."

Aaron stiffened, his jaw clenching. "I'm gonna pretend you didn't just say that," he said quietly. "Look, I'm not perfect. Far from it. But I do what I can for my family. You've still got a chance to be there for Y/N. Don't waste it."

Jacob stared at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with a sarcastic grin, he stood, swaying slightly.

"Yeah, I'll think about that," he said, his voice slurred. He tossed some cash onto the counter and stumbled toward the door. "See you around, Aaron."

Aaron watched him go, shaking his head in disappointment. "Damn it, Jacob," he muttered under his breath.

🕷️

After dropping Gwen off at her apartment and giving her a soft kiss goodnight, Y/N lingered outside her building for a moment, letting the warmth of her smile carry him through the cold night. He turned and started walking, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie. 

He wasn't ready to go home yet. 

The streets of Chelsea were as chaotic as ever. Sirens wailed in the distance, and the occasional shout from an alley made his steps quicken. Crime in New York had always been bad, but lately, it was like the city was falling apart. Everywhere you turned, there was danger waiting. 

Y/N stuck to the less crowded routes, avoiding eye contact with anyone who might want trouble, until he reached the small cemetery nestled between the older parts of the neighborhood. It was quiet here, a stark contrast to the restless city beyond the gates. 

He slipped inside, the gravel crunching softly under his sneakers as he made his way through the rows of headstones. When he finally reached his destination, he stopped and crouched down, pulling a small bouquet of flowers from his bag. 

Jessica L/N 
Rest In Peace
Mother | Wife | Leader

He placed the flowers gently at the base of the headstone and sat cross-legged in front of it, staring at the name etched into the cool stone. 

"Hey, Mom," he started quietly, his voice breaking the stillness of the night. "It's... it's been hard." 

He let out a shaky breath, his fingers brushing over the engraved letters. "Dad's not doing great. He's drinking a lot. I barely see him, and when I do, he's... not himself. He's blaming himself for everything. And honestly, sometimes I think he's right. But I don't know. I just... I don't know how to fix it." 

His chest tightened, but he kept going. "But I'll try, Mom. I promise. I'll look after him. I know you'd want me to." 

He paused, glancing at the flowers as a soft smile tugged at his lips. "Gwen's been amazing. She's... she's the best, honestly. She's been doing everything she can to help me. You'd love her. I know you already did, but, like... even more now. I think she keeps me sane." 

The words hung in the air as he swallowed back the lump forming in his throat. "I'm trying to move forward, but it's so hard without you here. I just wish..." His voice cracked, and he looked down at his hands. "I wish you were still here. I miss you so much, Mom. Every day." 

A tear slipped down his cheek, and then another, until he was crying, his shoulders shaking as the grief poured out. "I love you, Mom," he whispered, his voice trembling. "I love you so much." 

He sat there for a while, letting the quiet of the cemetery envelop him. When he finally stood, he wiped his face and looked at the headstone one last time. 

"I'll be back soon," he murmured before turning and walking back into the chaos of the city.

As Y/N trudged back into the city streets, his phone buzzed in his pocket. Pulling it out, he saw a text from Miles.

Miles: Yo, meet me at 148th and Lenox. Trust me.

Y/N furrowed his brow. That was... oddly cryptic, even for Miles.

Y/N: Why?

Miles: Just come, bro. You'll see.

A hint of curiosity tugged at him, so Y/N changed direction, heading toward the intersection Miles mentioned. As he approached, he spotted the glow of streetlights illuminating an alleyway and faint sounds of aerosol cans spraying.

"What the...?" Y/N muttered, stepping closer.

When he turned the corner, the sight stopped him in his tracks. Miles, MJ, and Glory were hard at work on a massive mural that took up the entire side of a building. It was a vibrant masterpiece in progress, with bold colors bursting across the brick wall.

At the center was an almost life-like image of his mom, Jessica, her face painted with intricate details that made her look as radiant as he remembered. Below her was a recreation of the words etched on her headstone:

Jessica L/N
Rest In Peace
Mother | Wife | Leader

The words were surrounded by an explosion of bright yellows, blues, and reds, giving the mural a warmth and energy that radiated hope.

Miles turned, a grin spreading across his face when he saw Y/N. "Yo, there he is!"

Y/N stared, his mouth slightly open. "Miles... what is this?"

Miles set down his can of spray paint and gestured to the mural. "It's for her, man. Your mom. She deserves to be remembered. Not just by you or your dad, but by the city. By everyone."

MJ turned from where she was adding detail to the portrait. "Miles came up with the idea, but we all wanted to help. Your mom sounds like she was an incredible person."

Glory chimed in, stepping back to admire her work. "And, you know, Miles wouldn't shut up about it until we made it happen."

Y/N blinked rapidly, trying to process the overwhelming emotions welling up inside him. "This is... this is awesome," he said, his voice cracking slightly. He swallowed hard and let out a shaky laugh. "Like, seriously. Thank you."

Miles handed him a can of spray paint with a small smile. "You wanna help finish it?"

For the first time in what felt like forever, Y/N grinned. A real grin. "Hell yeah."

🕷️

The house was eerily quiet, save for the sound of a lone clock ticking on the wall. Jacob sat at the dining room table, hunched over, his hand tightly gripping a half-empty beer bottle. He was still hungover from the previous night, but the numbing embrace of alcohol was the only solace he could find.

Y/N had already left for school that morning, and Jacob couldn't even recall the boy's parting words, if there were any. He barely remembered being dragged to bed by his own son, another shameful reminder of how far he had fallen.

He groaned, setting the bottle down and running his hands through his unkempt hair. The weight of his guilt and grief bore down on him like a vice, squeezing the life out of him little by little. His gaze shifted toward the hallway, where his office door stood slightly ajar.

Something compelled him to move. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was regret. Or maybe it was just the booze making his decisions for him. Whatever it was, Jacob shuffled into the office, bottle still in hand, and slouched into the worn leather chair behind his desk.

The dim room smelled of stale papers and neglect. He stared at the locked cabinet across from him for a long moment before setting his bottle on the desk. Reaching into his pocket, he fished out a small key and unlocked the cabinet door.

Inside was a single, ominous container, its glass walls pulsating faintly as the black, gooey substance inside struggled against its confines.

The Symbiote.

Jacob leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he stared at the writhing life form. "You're just like me," he muttered, his voice low and gravelly. "Trapped. Angry. Alone."

The Symbiote reacted to his words, its movements growing more frantic. For a fleeting moment, Jacob wondered what it would be like to set it free—to study it, to unleash it, to maybe even use it.

But then the memories of Project Scorpion crashed over him like a tidal wave. His experiments, his blind obedience to Norman Osborn, the horror that followed. Jessica's death.

"Not again," he hissed, slamming the container shut and locking the cabinet with trembling hands. "Not again."

He grabbed his beer bottle, took a long swig, and stormed out of the room.

The cool night air hit Jacob as he stepped outside, but it did little to clear his head. He wandered aimlessly through the city streets, the alcohol dulling his senses and amplifying his recklessness.

He found himself in a dive bar a few blocks away. The place was nearly empty, save for a few regulars nursing their drinks in silence. Jacob took a seat at the bar and gestured for a whiskey.

As the bartender poured his drink, Jacob mumbled, "You ever feel like...like everything you touch turns to ash?"

The bartender gave him a sideways glance but didn't respond.

Jacob downed the whiskey in one gulp and slammed the glass on the counter. "Another."

"Maybe you should slow down," the bartender said cautiously.

Jacob scowled. "Just pour the damn drink."

Reluctantly, the bartender complied. Jacob sipped this one slower, his mind wandering back to the Symbiote, to Jessica, to Y/N. He felt like a man at war with himself, fighting a battle he had no hope of winning.

"Used to be someone," Jacob muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "Now I'm just...this."

A man at the end of the bar snickered. "Looks like you've had a rough one, old man."

Jacob glared at him. "You got something to say?"

"Just calling it like I see it," the man said with a smirk.

Jacob stood up unsteadily, his fists clenched. "You don't know a damn thing about me."

The man shrugged. "Don't need to. You're just another washed-up drunk blaming the world for your problems."

That was the last straw. Jacob swung at the man, his fist connecting with his jaw. The bar erupted into chaos as the man retaliated, shoving Jacob into a table. Glasses shattered, and the bartender shouted for someone to call the cops.

By the time the police arrived, Jacob was on the floor, his knuckles bloodied and his face bruised. The officers hauled him to his feet, cuffing him as the other patrons looked on in disgust.

Hours later, Jacob sat in a holding cell, his head pounding and his heart heavy. The cold bench beneath him felt like a fitting punishment. He barely looked up when the guard called his name.

"Jacob L/N. Someone's here to bail you out."

Jacob blinked in confusion, rising unsteadily to his feet. As he stepped out into the lobby, he froze.

"Rio?" he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Rio Morales stood there, arms crossed and an unimpressed look on her face. "Don't look so surprised. Apparently, you didn't have anyone else listed as a contact, so they called me."

Jacob winced, shame washing over him.

Rio signed the paperwork, her movements brisk and efficient. Once Jacob was released, she turned to him, her eyes sharp. "What the hell were you thinking?"

Jacob rubbed the back of his neck. "I wasn't."

"Yeah, no kidding," Rio snapped. "You're lucky they didn't press charges. Do you have any idea how stupid this was?"

Jacob sighed, his shoulders slumping. "I know, okay? I screwed up."

"Again," Rio added pointedly.

He didn't argue. He couldn't.

Rio softened slightly, her voice losing some of its edge. "Jacob, I know you're hurting. But this? This isn't the way to deal with it. You have a son who needs you. Y/N doesn't deserve to keep cleaning up after your messes."

Jacob flinched at her words. "I...I don't know how to fix this, Rio."

"Start by trying," she said firmly. "Start by being there for him. Before you lose him too."

Her words hit him like a punch to the gut. He nodded slowly, the weight of his mistakes pressing down on him.

"Thanks," he said quietly.

"Don't thank me," Rio said, walking away. "Just do better."

🕷️

Jacob stepped through the front door of his home, the faint creak of the hinges echoing through the quiet house. His eyes immediately swept over the disarray—dirty dishes piled in the sink, trash overflowing, and a layer of dust covering the furniture. It was as if the state of the house mirrored the chaos of his life.

He sighed heavily, running a hand through his unkempt hair. The weight of the past weeks pressed down on him, the drinking, the reckless behavior, and most of all, how he had failed Y/N.

Rio's words echoed in his mind: "Start by trying."

She was right, as much as it stung to admit it. Jessica would have been so disappointed in him, not because of his grief, but because he'd let it consume him to the point of neglecting their son.

Without another thought, Jacob rolled up his sleeves and got to work. He started in the kitchen, scrubbing the counters and washing every dish. Then he moved to the living room, clearing away clutter and vacuuming the carpet. One by one, he tackled each room, the physical effort providing a strange sense of clarity.

When he finally finished, hours later, he stood in the center of the now-clean living room, his hands on his hips. It wasn't perfect, but it was a start.

He glanced toward his office, hesitating for a moment before stepping inside. The room was just as messy as the rest of the house had been—papers strewn across the desk, empty bottles on the floor. He cleaned it methodically, eventually uncovering his laptop beneath a pile of unopened mail.

Sitting down, Jacob powered on the computer and opened his email. Job alerts flooded his inbox, most of which he'd ignored over the past few months. But now, he sifted through them, looking for something—anything—that could bring in a steady income.

After an hour of searching, he found a listing: consultant at a pharmaceutical company. The pay wasn't great, and the benefits weren't as secure as what he'd had at Oscorp, but it was enough to cover the unpaid bills stacked on his desk. It wasn't his dream job, but it was a step in the right direction.

He filled out the application, attaching his resume and a carefully worded cover letter. Once he hit "submit," he leaned back in his chair, exhaling deeply.

His gaze drifted to the locked cabinet on the far side of the room. Standing up, he walked over and unlocked it, revealing the container housing the Symbiote.

The black, viscous substance pulsated within its confines, its movements almost hypnotic. Jacob stared at it for a long moment, his mind racing.

"This could be it," he murmured. "My new project. Something I can actually control, without Norman breathing down my neck."

He remembered the endless nights spent studying the Symbiote, its potential for medical and technological breakthroughs. It could revolutionize everything—or it could destroy it all.

But the thought of Norman Osborne finding out sent a chill down his spine. Norman had a knack for seizing control of anything he deemed valuable, and the Symbiote would be no exception.

Technically, the only people who had knowledge of the Symbiote's existence were Jacob and Curt Connors. And Curt was...

Jacob's jaw tightened at the memory of his old colleague. Curt had been brilliant, maybe even more so than Norman himself, but his obsession with his own experiments had led to tragedy.

If Norman knew, he'd stop at nothing to take it. He'd weaponize it, turn it into something monstrous.

He placed the container back in the cabinet and locked it securely. For now, it would remain a secret, something he'd only revisit when he was sure it couldn't fall into the wrong hands.

As he returned to his desk, he glanced at a framed photo of Jessica on the corner. Her smile was warm and full of life, a stark contrast to the cold ache in his chest.

It wasn't much, but for the first time in a long while, Jacob felt a flicker of hope.

🕷️

The L/N house had undergone a noticeable transformation over the past week. The dishes were no longer piled up in the sink, the floors had been swept, and the suffocating air of despair had lifted—if only slightly. Jacob had made strides in cleaning up his act, but Y/N still couldn't shake the bitterness that clung to him like a shadow. 

In his room, Y/N sat on the floor with Gwen and Miles, their textbooks and laptops scattered as they worked on a history project. The hum of the TV in the background filled the silence when their conversation lagged. 

"Okay, so the Treaty of Versailles," Gwen said, flipping through her notebook. "Totally unfair to Germany, right? But necessary for—" 

She paused mid-sentence, her gaze shifting to Y/N. He wasn't paying attention, his eyes glued to the television. She followed his line of sight and saw the source of his distraction. 

On the screen, Mac Gargan smirked in a tailored suit, standing in front of a fleet of trucks bearing the Scorpo Inc. logo. 

"At Scorpo, we don't just deliver your packages—we deliver your future."

The tagline was obnoxiously slick, the kind of thing that would appeal to investors and those willing to overlook Gargan's criminal past. 

Miles groaned, shaking his head. "Man, I hate that dude's face." 

Y/N's jaw clenched. "You're not the only one." 

Gwen kept her gaze on Y/N. She could see the tension radiating off him, the pencil in his hand trembling as his grip tightened. 

The commercial continued, showing Gargan shaking hands with politicians and cutting ribbons at charity events. To the public, he was a savvy businessman, the golden boy of New York's corporate world. But Y/N knew the truth. 

Max Gargan was untouchable. 

Since Jessica's death, Gargan had skyrocketed to prominence, using Scorpo Inc. as a front for his criminal empire. With his connections to the Sinister Six Cartel, he had manipulated, bribed, and intimidated his way into wealth and power. Any attempt to bring him to justice ended in failure. Witnesses disappeared, evidence went missing, and officials who dared challenge him found themselves either fired or worse. 

"I don't get it," Y/N muttered, his voice tight. "Everyone knows what he is. Why can't anyone do anything?" 

Gwen exchanged a glance with Miles before speaking softly. "My dad's trying, Y/N. But Gargan's... well, he's got his claws in a lot of people." 

"That's putting it lightly," Miles said bitterly. "The dude's a snake, and snakes like him always find a way to slither out of trouble." 

Y/N didn't reply, his eyes still glued to the screen. 

The commercial finally ended, and for a brief moment, Y/N let out a breath, thinking the torment was over. But then another ad came on. 

Norman Osborn's polished face filled the screen. His voice was smooth, calculated. "New York is a city of strength and resilience. But it needs leadership—someone who understands its challenges and its future. Together, we can rebuild. Vote Osborne for Mayor."

Norman's campaign slogan appeared in bold letters:

"Leadership You Can Trust"

Y/N's pencil snapped in half with a loud crack. 

Gwen immediately reached out, her hand covering his. "Y/N," she said gently. 

"I'm fine," he said quickly, though his voice betrayed him. 

"Doesn't look like it," Miles said, leaning back on his hands. "Dude, your hand's shaking." 

Y/N stared at his broken pencil before tossing it aside. "It's nothing." 

"It's not nothing," Gwen pressed. "Talk to me." 

Y/N met her gaze, but before he could say anything, a faint noise echoed from down the hall. 

"What was that?" Miles asked, sitting up straighter. 

Y/N frowned. "I don't know. It came from my dad's office." 

Gwen started to stand, but Y/N stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. "Stay here. Miles and I will check it out." 

"Be careful," Gwen said, her brows furrowing with concern. 

Y/N nodded and motioned for Miles to follow him. The two boys made their way down the hall, the noise growing quieter as they approached the office. Y/N pushed the door open cautiously, revealing the room. 

At first glance, everything seemed normal. Jacob had clearly been making an effort to keep the space organized. But Y/N's eyes were drawn to the metallic containment chamber lodged beside the desk. 

"What is that?" Miles asked, stepping closer. 

Y/N squinted at the label on the chamber. "Project S?" he read aloud. 

The boys leaned in, peering at the strange black substance inside. It pulsed and writhed, almost as if it were alive. 

"What even is that?" Miles asked, his voice tinged with unease. 

Y/N shook his head. "I have no idea. I don't come in here." 

The Symbiote reacted violently, slamming itself against the glass, sending ripples through the chamber. Both boys jumped back in alarm. 

"Okay, nope," Miles said, taking another step back. "Dude, maybe we shouldn't mess with this. Your dad's probably got it locked up for a reason." 

Y/N hesitated, his curiosity warring with his better judgment. "I'm not gonna touch it. I just... I don't know. I've never seen anything like it." 

The Symbiote slammed against the glass again, its movements focused and deliberate, as if it were trying to get to Y/N. 

"Yeah, that's creepy as hell," Miles said. "Let's just go. Your dad's gonna flip if he finds out we're snooping in here." 

Y/N nodded reluctantly. "Probably something he stole from Oscorp," he muttered. 

Miles smirked. "Gotta respect the pettiness." 

As they left the office, neither of them noticed the Symbiote's increased agitation. It slammed against the glass repeatedly, its movements growing more frenzied. 

It could feel Y/N's anger, his bitterness, his pain. 

He would be perfect. 

The Symbiote's movements slowed, settling into a steady pulse. 

It had chosen its host.

🕷️

The crisp fall air was thick with tension as Norman Osborn stepped onto the stage for his press conference. The gleaming Oscorp logo flanked the banners of his mayoral campaign, and cameras flashed relentlessly as reporters jockeyed for position in front of the podium. Standing beside him was his son, Harry Osborne, dressed in a sharp suit but looking distinctly uncomfortable.

Norman, on the other hand, was in his element. His practiced smile radiated confidence and authority. He raised his hand to quiet the murmuring crowd, and the room fell silent.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Norman began, his voice smooth and commanding. "I've spent my life building a better New York. As the head of Oscorp, I've created jobs, advanced science, and strengthened our city's infrastructure. But there is still more to be done. New York needs a leader who will take action—a leader who will not falter in the face of adversity. That's why I'm here today, to answer your questions and share my vision for our future."

Hands shot up instantly, and Norman pointed to a woman in the front row.

"Mr. Osborn," she began, "what is your response to the recent allegations linking Macdonald Gargan, CEO of Scorpo Inc., to the Sinister Six cartel? Rumors suggest he has deep criminal ties, and some claim Oscorp played a significant role in his rise to power."

Norman's smile barely faltered, though there was a flash of irritation in his eyes. "Macdonald Gargan is an entrepreneur who, like many, had his struggles. Unfortunately, his downfall was not due to Oscorp but rather the irresponsibility of one man—Jacob L/N."

The room erupted into murmurs, but Norman raised his hand again, commanding silence.

"As many of you know," he continued, "Jacob L/N was once a respected member of Oscorp's research team. However, his reckless behavior and poor decision-making led to significant lapses in our operations, including the creation of individuals like Gargan. I deeply regret the impact his actions have had on our city, but let me be clear—Oscorp has always acted with integrity and has no ties to the criminal activities of Mr. Gargan."

Harry shifted uncomfortably beside him, his lips pressed into a thin line. He stared at the floor, avoiding his father's gaze.

Another reporter stood up. "But Mr. Osborn, Gargan's criminal activities didn't start after his departure from Oscorp. There's evidence suggesting that Oscorp provided funding for his early ventures, which were later linked to—"

Norman interrupted smoothly, his tone firm but not aggressive. "We are a corporation dedicated to innovation and growth. Any allegations of Oscorp knowingly supporting illegal activities are baseless and unfounded. Now, let's move on to more pressing matters regarding the safety of our city."

The reporter reluctantly sat down, and Norman pointed to another hand in the crowd.

"What steps will you take to address the rising crime rates in New York City?"

Norman straightened, his practiced charisma shining through. "Crime is a symptom of a deeper problem—a lack of resources and leadership. As mayor, I plan to implement a comprehensive strategy to strengthen our police force, increase funding for education and community programs, and create partnerships with private enterprises like Oscorp to develop advanced technologies for law enforcement. Together, we can ensure that our streets are safe and our citizens protected."

A hand shot up in the back. "And if you win the election, what will happen to Oscorp? Will you step down as CEO?"

Norman gave a calculated smile. "Oscorp is my life's work, but my focus will be entirely on serving the people of New York. I have full confidence in my executive team to continue Oscorp's legacy of excellence while I dedicate myself to this city's future."

As the questions continued, Norman's rhetoric grew more polished, more calculated. But Harry, standing silently by his side, grew increasingly uneasy. He could see through the lies and deflections, and the weight of the truth bore heavily on him.

Across the plaza, a figure crouched in the shadows of a nearby rooftop, watching the scene unfold. The Prowler's purple and black suit gleamed faintly under the city lights, his clawed gloves gripping the edge of the building.

Miles clenched his jaw beneath his helmet, his eyes fixed on Norman. The lies pouring out of the man's mouth made his blood boil. Norman Osborn was more than just a corrupt politician—Miles believed he was responsible for much of the chaos and crime that plagued the city, and yet he stood there, pretending to be its savior.

A faint buzz in his helmet broke his concentration. Aaron's voice crackled through the comms.

"Where you at, man? The security switch goes out at six."

"I know," Miles muttered, his voice low. "I had to make a little detour."

"Detour?" Aaron sounded annoyed. "Miles, this ain't the time to be messin' around. We got a job to do, and we don't get second chances with these people."

"I'll be a minute," Miles replied, his eyes still on Norman.

Aaron's voice grew sharper. "A minute? You sittin' there watchin' Osborn play politician while I'm out here doin' all the work? Get your head in the game, kid."

Miles didn't respond.

"Miles—"

The line cut off abruptly as Miles deactivated the comms. He couldn't tear his gaze away from the stage.

Norman raised his arms in a gesture of unity, his voice booming over the crowd. "Together, we will rebuild. Together, we will rise."

🕷️

The Osborn penthouse was quiet, save for the faint hum of the city outside. Norman Osborn lay in his massive bed, bathed in the dim glow of the skyline filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. It had been a long day of spinning narratives and managing his campaign, and exhaustion tugged at him. Yet, even in sleep, his mind buzzed with calculations and schemes.

Unbeknownst to him, a shadow had slipped through the penthouse's high-tech defenses.

The Prowler moved with the precision of a predator, silent and deliberate. Miles crept past security cameras, using his enhanced reflexes to stay out of sight. His clawed gloves made no sound as he slid open drawers, pocketing small valuables and a few vials of Oscorp's experimental serums. These would be useful later, he thought, but tonight wasn't just about stealing—it was about sending a message.

Miles returned to Norman's bedroom, the faint whirr of the Prowler's claws cutting through the stillness. Perched on the windowsill, he let the wind whip through the room, carrying a chill that roused Norman from his sleep.

The billionaire stirred, his brow furrowing before his eyes blinked open. His gaze locked on the dark figure crouched in the window. For a moment, he froze.

"What is this?" Norman's voice was low, sharp, and tinged with disbelief. He sat up, his piercing eyes narrowing as he took in the intruder.

The Prowler stood to his full height, the city lights casting an eerie glow on his sleek, angular armor. His voice was calm, steady. "Just stopping by, Osborn."

Norman's lip curled into a sneer. "So, you're the infamous Prowler. I've heard whispers. A phantom thief, an urban legend. And now you're in my home, no less. Bold."

Miles tilted his head slightly, the faint whirring of his suit's mechanisms the only response.

Norman's eyes scanned him up and down, his sharp intellect already piecing things together. "Smaller than I imagined. Almost... like a kid. Surprising, really. I expected someone with a bit more gravitas."

The Prowler let out a low chuckle, the sound distorted through his mask. "Funny. I thought you'd be taller. Guess neither of us live up to expectations."

Norman's sneer deepened. "Do you know who I am? What you're doing right now is suicide. You think you can intimidate me?"

Miles stepped forward, his movements measured, controlled. "Oh, I'm not here to intimidate you, Norman. Just to have a chat. You've got a nice setup here—Oscorp at your fingertips, the city in your pocket. But you've got secrets, don't you?"

Norman's expression flickered, just for a second. "Secrets? I have nothing to hide. Everything I do is for the good of this city."

Miles crossed his arms, leaning slightly against the window frame. "Right. Like funding Gargan? Letting him run Scorpo while he's tied to the Sinister Six cartel? Or maybe the shady deals with those 'community programs' you're so proud of. Should I keep going?"

Norman's eyes narrowed, his voice dropping to a cold growl. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, I do," Miles shot back, his tone unwavering. "I know exactly what you've done. The people you've screwed over. The lives you've ruined. And you're gonna pay for it."

Norman rose from the bed, his composure beginning to crack. "You're nothing more than a child playing dress-up, aren't you? A misguided little vigilante pretending to be something you're not."

Miles chuckled again, stepping closer. "You really don't like being called out, do you? But don't worry—I'm not here to take you down. Not yet."

Norman clenched his fists, his mind racing. "Not yet? What is this, some kind of game to you?"

"No game," Miles replied, his voice dropping an octave. "Just a warning. I'm watching, Osborn. I know what you've done, and I'm going to make sure the rest of the city knows too."

Norman's face turned a shade darker, his voice rising. "You think you can threaten me? I own this city! I own people like you!"

Miles didn't flinch. Instead, he tilted his head, almost amused. "Yeah? Well, I guess your son's not the only asshole in this house."

Norman's rage boiled over. He reached for his phone, hitting the speed dial for security. "We'll see how tough you are when my guards—"

He froze mid-sentence. The window was empty. The Prowler was gone, the wind howling through the room as if he'd never been there.

Norman's chest heaved as he glanced around the empty room, his finger hovering over the call button. After a moment, he canceled it. No point in summoning security now.

As he stepped toward the window to close it, his eyes caught a message scrawled in jagged, glowing letters on the glass.

I KNOW WHAT YOU DID, OSBORN

Norman's blood ran cold. His reflection stared back at him, framed by the menacing words that burned into his mind.

In the distance, Miles perched on another rooftop, watching as Norman's silhouette lingered by the window. A small, satisfied smile tugged at his lips beneath the mask.

"See you around, Norman," he muttered before disappearing into the night.