The polished mahogany conference table reflected the harsh fluorescent lights overhead as the shareholders sitting in their plush leather seats exchanged nervous glances. The air was thick with tension and the faint scent of expensive cologne mixed with the metallic taste of fear. Each board member shifted uncomfortably, their tailored suits suddenly feeling constricting as they studied the two figures with superhuman abilities standing before them with growing wariness.
The soft hum of the building's ventilation system seemed unnaturally loud in the oppressive silence that had settled over the room like a heavy blanket. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the distant sounds of New York traffic created a muted backdrop—honking horns and rumbling engines a world away from the corporate power struggle unfolding thirty stories above the street.
Especially Kamen Rider—Spider-Man maintained a gentle, almost apologetic posture, his red and blue costume catching the light as he stood with hands clasped behind his back, clearly uncomfortable with the intimidation tactics but not intervening. His mask's large white eye lenses seemed to survey the room with what could almost be interpreted as sympathy. But Kamen Rider was too casual, too dismissive of their authority and status.
John's relaxed stance—one hip cocked, arms crossed loosely over his chest—radiated an air of complete indifference to their wealth, their influence, their carefully constructed world of corporate dominance. His armored form gleamed dully under the conference room's lighting, and the way he occasionally flexed his fingers suggested barely contained power. This attitude of completely ignoring them, of treating them like insignificant insects rather than titans of industry, put them under crushing psychological pressure. The leather of their chairs creaked softly as they unconsciously leaned away from him.
No one dared to speak for what felt like an eternity, the silence stretching taut as a wire. The only sounds were the subtle rustle of expensive fabric, the barely audible whisper of nervous breathing, and the distant drone of the city far below.
They were all smart people—survivors who had clawed their way to the top of the corporate food chain through cunning, ruthlessness, and an almost supernatural ability to read power dynamics. None of those who had climbed to this rarified position were impulsive fools. They were all veteran foxes with decades of boardroom battles behind them, each one having destroyed careers and fortunes with nothing more than a well-timed vote or a whispered word in the right ear.
But this was different. This was primal fear overriding corporate instinct.
For two people with super powers who clearly possessed abilities that at least couldn't be neutralized by their usual tools—security teams, legal threats, financial pressure—no one dared to bet whether these enhanced individuals would send them to meet their maker on the spot if sufficiently provoked. The calculated risks that normally governed their world had been shattered by the introduction of variables that couldn't be bought, threatened, or controlled.
The oppressive weight of decision gradually settled on the white-haired old man and the middle-aged woman with perfectly styled blonde hair. Their fellow board members' eyes turned to them like spotlights, the unspoken message clear: You two are the senior voices here. Handle this.
Although the middle-aged woman with blonde hair seethed internally at Peter's earlier casual address of 'grandma'—the disrespect burning in her chest like acid—she forced herself to swallow her wounded pride. Her manicured fingers tightened imperceptibly on her tablet as she reminded herself that this was decidedly not the time to indulge personal emotions or wounded vanity.
She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks, but her years of corporate poker faces served her well. Still, her racing pulse betrayed her composure as she felt that while she wasn't the person she most wanted to see taking point on this confrontation, Hand next to her was the obvious choice. She kept catching his eye, her subtle head tilts and meaningful glances practically screaming for him to stand up and be the first to take action, to draw the fire away from the rest of them.
The white-haired old man—Hand—felt the weight of expectation crushing down on his shoulders like a physical burden. His weathered hands, which had signed countless deals and destroyed numerous competitors, trembled almost imperceptibly as he realized there was no escape from this moment. The familiar taste of power that usually filled his mouth had turned bitter with fear.
Drawing on reserves of corporate bravado that had served him through decades of hostile takeovers and boardroom coups, he pushed himself to his feet. His chair scraped against the polished floor with a harsh sound that seemed to echo in the tense silence. With theatrical fury born of desperation, he slammed his palm against the mahogany table, the sharp crack resonating through the room like a gunshot. "Harry!" His voice rose with carefully calculated anger, though the slight quaver betrayed his underlying terror. "Is this what you call 'looking at the project'? Threatening your board of directors with what amounts to a terrorist attack?"
The words hung in the air, and Hand immediately wondered if he'd made a fatal mistake. Sweat beaded along his hairline despite the conference room's perfect climate control.
Harry remained frustratingly indifferent, his young face a mask of distracted calm that only served to unnerve the shareholders further. His green eyes seemed focused on something invisible, as if the entire confrontation was merely background noise to whatever occupied his thoughts.
But John beside him straightened with predatory interest, and when he spoke, his voice carried an undertone of dark amusement that made everyone's skin crawl. "Wow, that's interesting."
The casual observation fell into the silence like a stone into still water, creating ripples of unease that washed over every person in the room.
Without warning, John's armored fist came down on the conference table with devastating force. The sound was explosive—not the hollow thump of knuckles on wood, but the splintering crack of expensive mahogany giving way under superhuman strength. Splinters of rich wood flew in all directions, and the entire table shuddered under the impact. A section of the polished surface, easily the size of a dinner plate, broke away cleanly.
The violence of the action sent every shareholder jerking backward in their chairs, several gasping audibly. The white-haired old man—Hand—dropped back into his seat as if his strings had been cut, his face draining of color until it matched his silver hair. The acrid smell of fear-sweat began to permeate the room's carefully conditioned air.
John's movements were casual, almost playful, as he picked up the hefty chunk of conference table. The wood was solid mahogany, heavy and substantial, but he tossed it from hand to hand as if it weighed nothing more than a tennis ball. His armored fingers closed around it with deliberate slowness, and then—impossibly—a surge of crimson energy began to flow from his gauntlets.
The shareholders watched in horrified fascination as reality itself seemed to bend to John's will. The wooden fragment began to shift and flow like clay in the hands of a master sculptor, its grain stretching and reforming. The piece gradually lengthened, growing thinner and more refined, extending until it reached clear across the massive conference table. What had once been a chunk of broken furniture transformed into an elegant, deadly rapier with a rich brown-red blade that seemed to pulse with inner fire.
The transformation was mesmerizing and terrifying in equal measure. Several board members found themselves leaning forward despite their fear, unable to look away from the impossible display of power. Their faces remained carefully controlled masks of corporate composure, but their hands betrayed them—fingers drumming nervously against tablet cases, knuckles white where they gripped armrests, pens clicking in unconscious rhythms of stress.
Particle manipulation! John thought with dark satisfaction. Useless in actual combat—too slow, creates objects that are brittle under real stress—but absolutely perfect for psychological warfare.
With fluid grace that spoke of either extensive training or supernatural coordination, John vaulted onto the conference table itself. His boots landed on the polished surface with metallic clicks that echoed in the suddenly tomb-like silence. He settled into a casual crouch, completely at ease despite perching on furniture worth more than most people's cars, and moved his improvised rapier with lazy precision.
The blade whispered through the air as he brought it to rest against the white-haired old man's throat. The metal was cold—unnaturally so, as if it had absorbed all the warmth from the room—and Hand could feel his pulse hammering against the flat of the blade.
"Didn't you want to see the project status?" John's voice was conversational, almost friendly, which somehow made it infinitely more menacing. He tapped the rapier lightly against Hand's neck, just hard enough to make the older man's adam's apple bob nervously. "Well, Spider-Man and I are the core project managers. Do you like what you see?"
The white-haired old man's breath came in short, shallow gasps as he tried to maintain some semblance of dignity while staring death in the face. With trembling hands that shook so badly he could barely coordinate the movement, he gently pushed the rapier's point away from his throat. The metal scraped slightly against his skin, not quite breaking it but leaving a thin red line that would serve as a lasting reminder of this moment.
"Killing... killing is against the law!" His voice cracked slightly on the words, decades of commanding presence reduced to the desperate plea of a frightened old man. "We can... we can discuss this reasonably. Business solutions to business problems."
After forcing out the words, he turned to Harry with what he hoped was righteous anger but came across more as confused betrayal. His voice gained strength from familiar corporate outrage. "Harry! Aren't you afraid that the board will remove you from your position if you continue with this... this madness?"
But Harry remained lost in his own thoughts, his gaze unfocused as if he were watching a movie that only he could see. His complete disconnection from the proceedings, his utter indifference to threats that should have terrified any CEO, left every shareholder present feeling like they'd stepped through the looking glass into a world where the old rules no longer applied.
John gracefully slid down from the table, his boots hitting the floor with soft thuds. He moved with predatory ease between the white-haired old man and the blonde middle-aged woman, the rapier dissolving back into harmless wood splinters that scattered across the expensive carpet. The casual destruction of his weapon somehow made him seem even more dangerous—as if creating instruments of death was so effortless for him that he discarded them like used tissues.
His armored hands settled on both their shoulders with deceptive gentleness. They could feel the weight of them, the barely restrained strength that could crush bone without effort. When he leaned down between them, his voice dropped to a whisper that somehow carried to every corner of the room.
"Why don't you guess why Norman didn't come back?"
The words hit every shareholder like physical blows. John's soft question landed in each heart like a sledgehammer striking an anvil, the implications reverberating through their consciousness with terrifying clarity.
Why didn't Norman come back? The question echoed in their minds, growing louder with each repetition. They had all accepted the surface explanation—business trips, important meetings, the usual excuses of a busy executive. But now, with hindsight sharpened by fear, the absence took on sinister implications.
Norman Osborn wasn't the type to delegate when his company's control was at stake. He wasn't someone who would miss a crucial board meeting unless something had happened to him. Something permanent.
The pieces began clicking together in their minds like the tumblers of a lock falling into place. Norman had exhibited increasingly erratic behavior in the months before his disappearance—mood swings, paranoid outbursts, periods of withdrawn silence that had seemed almost... medicinal? They had dismissed it as stress, perhaps a midlife crisis or the pressure of running a major corporation.
But what if it hadn't been stress at all? What if Norman had discovered something, or been discovered? What if these two powered individuals represented something far more dangerous than corporate espionage or hostile takeover attempts?
(John's internal monologue: No, he's just busy with something and has no time for you clowns.)
The shareholders' faces grew pale as the implications sank in. Norman's business acumen was legendary, his ruthlessness in corporate dealings matched only by his brilliant strategic mind. He had survived and thrived in the cutthroat world of international business for decades, making enemies of powerful people and living to profit from their downfall.
If Norman Osborn—a man who had stared down senators, intimidated foreign ministers, and built an empire through sheer force of will—had been completely neutralized by these two individuals, what hope did they have?
The thought sent ice water through their veins. John had mentioned military and police connections. What kind of black operations were they involved in? What government agencies might be pulling their strings? The corporate world suddenly seemed like a children's playground compared to whatever shadowy realm these two inhabited.
John straightened and looked at the white-haired old man with an expression of benevolent consideration that was somehow more terrifying than outright hostility. His tone remained conversational, almost grandfatherly. "Old man, your name is Hand, right? How about you become the chairman? I think you'd do a wonderful job in the position."
Hand jerked backward as if John had suggested he juggle live grenades. His hands flew up in defensive gestures, waving frantically. "Forget it, forget it! I think Harry is the most suitable person for the role. Absolutely the most suitable. No question about it."
John's attention shifted to the middle-aged lady with blonde hair, and she could feel his gaze like a physical weight pressing down on her shoulders. "What about you, ma'am? I'm sure you have the experience and vision to guide Osborn Industries into a prosperous future."
The woman shook her head so vigorously that her carefully styled hair came loose from its pins. "I also think Harry is the best choice! The only choice, really. He has the vision, the family connection, the... the youth and energy the company needs."
Releasing both of them from his gentle but terrifying attention, John strolled with casual confidence to the head of the conference table. Harry immediately vacated the chairman's seat without a word, stepping aside with the easy deference of someone who understood the true power dynamics in the room.
The shareholders watched this exchange with a mixture of amazement and growing dread. They had entered this meeting expecting to face Norman's inexperienced son—someone they could manipulate, control, perhaps even remove from power through coordinated board action. Instead, they found themselves watching a complete inversion of corporate hierarchy, where the real authority belonged to individuals who existed entirely outside their understanding of how the world worked.
John settled into the leather chair with obvious satisfaction, crossing his legs and resting his chin on one hand in a pose of relaxed contemplation. His armored form looked incongruous against the backdrop of corporate luxury, like a medieval knight who had wandered into a modern boardroom. When he spoke, his voice carried the easy confidence of someone who held all the cards.
"Is there anything else you would like to know? Any other questions about project status, resource allocation, future planning?"
The shareholders sat ramrod straight in their chairs, their expensive suits suddenly feeling like prison uniforms. Despite their obvious fear, they maintained their silence—decades of corporate survival instincts warning them that speaking without understanding the new rules could be fatal.
John finally understood the psychology at play. These old corporate veterans were creatures of calculated risk and measured response. When faced with situations where the potential downside was catastrophic and the benefits unclear, they defaulted to cautious inaction. They were waiting for someone else to test the waters, to probe for weaknesses or opportunities.
With a gesture as casual as pointing out an interesting cloud formation, he indicated the white-haired old man and the blonde woman. "Do you two still want to see detailed project documentation? Performance metrics? Cost-benefit analyses?"
Both shook their heads with desperate enthusiasm, their voices overlapping in their haste to decline. "No, no. We're completely satisfied with the current level of information sharing."
"Oh, how disappointing." John's sigh carried genuine regret, as if he'd been looking forward to a stimulating discussion of quarterly projections. "Spider-Man and I will be leaving then. We have other appointments to keep, other projects to oversee."
The shareholders felt a collective exhale of relief beginning to build in their chests. The nightmare was ending. They would survive this encounter, learn from it, adapt their strategies accordingly.
"Wait!" The single word cut through the air like a blade.
Max, the bald man who had remained silent throughout the entire confrontation, finally spoke. His voice was steady, confident—the tone of someone who had suddenly seen opportunity where others saw only danger.
John turned with renewed interest, and there was something almost predatory in his attention as it focused on this unexpected participant. "What's the matter, Mr. Max?"
Max rose to his feet with the smooth confidence of a seasoned dealmaker, his movements deliberate and calculated. "I'd like to invest in your project. The American military's funding streams can be... restrictive, shall we say. Bureaucratic. Laden with oversight and political considerations. Are you interested in exploring alternative financing options?"
John's eyebrows rose with genuine surprise. This was not the response he had expected from any of these corporate dinosaurs. "What do you want in return? What's your asking price?"
Max spread his hands with the gesture of someone offering a gift with no strings attached. "Friendship! I want to make friends with you two. Strategic partnerships built on mutual respect and shared interests."
John touched his chin thoughtfully, and for the first time since entering the room, his smile seemed genuinely pleased rather than menacingly amused. "Interesting. I didn't expect you to be the smartest one in the room. The rest of these people..." He gestured dismissively at the other shareholders. "Well, let's just say their survival instincts need some fine-tuning."
Rising from the chairman's chair with fluid grace, John stretched like a cat waking from a comfortable nap. His armor caught the light, and for a moment he looked less like an instrument of intimidation and more like someone who had simply concluded a successful business meeting.
"Don't worry about the terms," he said, his tone becoming genuinely warm. "I'm not in the habit of taking unfair advantage of business partners. I don't mind sharing certain opportunities that won't put you in excessive danger. I've always been willing to work with intelligent people. They may not always be completely reliable when things get complicated, but that's not really a problem for someone in my position."
John crossed the room with purposeful strides, approaching Max with his right hand extended in the universal gesture of business partnership. Max immediately rose to meet him, and when their hands clasped, there was the solid sound of a deal being sealed.
"It's a pleasure to work with you," John said, his grip firm and confident.
"The pleasure is entirely mine!" Max's response carried the enthusiasm of someone who had just secured the opportunity of a lifetime.
John released Max's hand and stepped back, his attention already shifting to departure. "You can coordinate with Harry for any immediate needs, but remember—this is a one-time direct access offer. After today, everything goes through proper channels. Let's go, Spider-Man."
While the other shareholders remained frozen in their seats, still processing the dramatic shift in corporate dynamics they had just witnessed, John was already leading Peter toward the exit. Their departure was as casual as their entrance had been dramatic.
Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the remaining board members watched in fascinated silence as the two figures emerged onto the building's exterior. They stood on what appeared to be some kind of mechanical flying device—a sleek, beetle-like craft that defied every law of physics and engineering they thought they understood. The machine rose smoothly into the New York sky, carrying its passengers away from the corporate world and back into whatever shadowy realm they called home.
The shareholders sat in stunned silence, each processing the encounter through their own filter of experience and survival instinct. Some felt the profound relief of having escaped a life-threatening situation with their dignity and bank accounts intact. Others stared at the empty sky with expressions of deep confusion, trying to reconcile what they had witnessed with their understanding of how the world worked.
Max, however, radiated nervous excitement rather than fear. His hands trembled slightly, but from adrenaline rather than terror. He had just made what could be the most important business connection of his career—or signed his own death warrant. Time would tell which.
Harry approached Max and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, leaning in to speak in confidential tones that the other shareholders couldn't quite make out. "You really made the right decision, Mr. Max. The smartest decision anyone in this room has made in a very long time."
Max looked up at Harry, his face transformed by sincere admiration mixed with barely contained excitement. The uneasiness that had been gnawing at his stomach since the moment he'd spoken up seemed to evaporate like morning mist before the sun. Harry's approval felt like a benediction, a confirmation that he had read the situation correctly and positioned himself on the winning side of a fundamental shift in power.
Harry paid no attention to the other shareholders, who remained seated around the damaged conference table like survivors of a natural disaster. Without a word of dismissal or explanation, he walked directly out of the meeting room, leaving the remaining board members to contemplate their new reality in uncomfortable silence.
The silence stretched on, broken only by the distant sounds of the city below and the whisper of the building's ventilation system. Finally, someone found the courage to voice what they were all thinking.
"Has the new era arrived?" The words hung in the air like a prophecy.
No one answered. No one needed to.
Meanwhile...
Deep within a classified military installation somewhere in the continental United States, fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting harsh white illumination across sterile concrete corridors and reinforced steel doors. The air carried the perpetual smell of industrial disinfectant mixed with gun oil and the ozone scent of electronic equipment running at maximum capacity.
General Aslock stood in his private office, staring with intense focus at the vial of liquid in his weathered hands. The improved version of Type 1 human function enhancement factor gleamed like liquid emerald in the harsh overhead lighting—this brilliant green color representing the culmination of months of research, negotiation, and barely controlled frustration.
Finally, finally, his mind raced with vindicated satisfaction. After all the setbacks, all the failed experiments, all the promising leads that turned into dead ends—I finally have my super soldier program!
The serum seemed to pulse with inner light, each facet of the glass container refracting the fluorescent illumination into tiny rainbows. He could practically feel the power contained within that small vial—the potential to create warriors who could face any threat, overcome any obstacle, dominate any battlefield.
The price had been astronomical, enough to fund a small war, but results were results. And yes, Osborne had been frustratingly upfront about the serum's limitations—time-sensitivity with complete reversal of effects occurring after six months of enhancement. But was that really a drawback? The General's weathered face creased into what might have been mistaken for a smile by someone who didn't know him well.
It's clearly a benefit! he thought with ruthless pragmatism. I even wish the timeframe was shorter.
Temporary enhancement meant temporary loyalty requirements. No risk of super-soldiers going rogue after their service period ended. No need to worry about enhanced individuals retiring into civilian life with abilities that could destabilize entire governments. Every enhanced operative would have a built-in expiration date, ensuring their absolute dependence on military supply chains and command structure.
His attention shifted to the folder of technical specifications spread across his metal desk. The Knight System project documentation made for fascinating reading—four distinct upgrade forms, four separate ability sets, statistical improvements that pushed the boundaries of human potential into science fiction territory.
However, the more he studied the data, the more his satisfaction curdled into suspicion and rage. Apart from the impressive test data and demonstration videos that Osborne Industries had submitted for review, there was absolutely no other experimental documentation. No prototype testing records, no iterative development logs, no failure analyses that should have accompanied a project of this complexity.
It was as if the Knight System had sprung fully formed from someone's imagination, with no development phase, no trial and error, no gradual refinement process. Either Osborne Industries had achieved a level of engineering perfection that bordered on the supernatural, or they were hiding something crucial about the project's true nature.
When he had threatened to withdraw all military funding from the Knight System project—a threat that should have sent Osborne's executives into panic mode—Harry Osborn had responded with casual indifference that still made the General's blood pressure spike just thinking about it.
"You can invest or not," the young heir had said with maddening nonchalance. "If you don't want to fund it, the Osborn Group will handle the investment internally."
The memory of that conversation caused General Aslock's face to contort with barely controlled fury, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the serum vial. He could feel his pulse pounding in his temples, the familiar sensation of rage-induced hypertension that his doctor kept warning him about.
Before, he thought with bitter irony, Harry Osborn was practically begging me to come examine their projects. If I hadn't invested military funding, the Osborn Group would have faced a major financial crisis months ago—might even have ended up in bankruptcy court, their assets stripped and sold to the highest bidder.
But now? Now, with their financial crisis mysteriously resolved and a new version of super soldier serum generating massive revenue streams, the young Osborn had developed a backbone made of titanium steel. He had even had the unmitigated audacity to hang up on a United States General during an official military procurement call.
The General's rage built like steam in a pressure cooker. He is so infuriating! F**! F***! F***!*
His attention turned to the team of military scientists and contractors who had been tasked with reverse-engineering the serum. Despite having access to complete information on the original prototype formula and multiple samples of the improved version for analysis, they had failed spectacularly at producing even a basic replication of Osborne's work.
Are all these scientists completely useless? he wondered with growing exasperation. Is it really that difficult to replicate someone else's documented research? We have their formulas, their processing methods, their quality control protocols, their testing procedures—and yet these idiots can't even manage to recreate the prototype serum that we have complete technical specifications for.
The implications were staggering. Either his military research teams were more incompetent than he had ever imagined, or Osborne Industries was deliberately withholding crucial information that made their documentation worthless for replication purposes.
Either possibility infuriated him beyond measure.
Standing alone in his office, surrounded by the fruits of American military power and technological superiority, General Aslock felt more powerless than he had at any point in his decorated career. A young corporate heir who should have been grateful for military patronage was instead treating the United States Army as a optional business partner.
Harry Osborn, he thought with dark promise, just wait for me. When this is all over, when I figure out what game you're really playing, I will make you pay back every penny of investment funding with compound interest. Double what you owe me, triple if necessary.
But even as he made these mental threats, a small voice in the back of his mind whispered a troubling question: What if Harry Osborn isn't worried about repayment because he knows something I don't? What if he's confident that traditional military leverage won't work against whatever he's really involved in?
The General pushed that uncomfortable thought aside and focused instead on the green serum in his hands. Whatever games were being played in the shadows, he finally had his super soldiers. That had to count for something.
Outside his office windows, the sun was setting over the military base, casting long shadows across the compound's training facilities and research laboratories. Somewhere in those buildings, the future of warfare was being shaped by forces and individuals that even a General with decades of experience couldn't fully understand or control.
The new era had indeed arrived. The only question was whether he would be commanding it or crushed by it.
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