New York Harbor at night.
Searchlights pierced the thick sea fog, illuminating the dock as bright as day. The wail of sirens—police, ambulance, fire—blended with the thunderous roar of helicopter rotors into a deafening wall of sound.
Reporters jostled for the best camera angles, their flashes flickering like strobes, weaving a dazzling silver web through the darkness. Vendors seized the opportunity to sell hot dogs and coffee, though their cries were drowned out by the clamor of the crowd.
In the distance, the screens of onlookers' mobile phones twinkled like stars. Live-streaming bloggers shouted into their cameras at the top of their lungs, while the sea breeze—laden with salt and the acrid tang of fuel—swept across every restless soul.
And at Pier 23 in New York Harbor, chaos reigned like a boiling furnace.
Three human walls formed by dozens of New York police officers teetered on the verge of collapse. Their tactical vests were soaked with sweat, rubber batons held across their chests, yet they could not stem the relentless tide of reporters and families of the Argonaut victims.
On the roof of CNN's live broadcast van, a photographer tracked the rescue boat's gangway through a telephoto lens. Nearby, a Daily News reporter stood on his colleague's shoulders to push forward, his recorder nearly jabbing a police officer in the face.
"Back off! Everyone, back off!!"
The police inspector bellowed through a megaphone—but his voice vanished beneath the roar of hundreds.
Cameramen shoved one another for position; tripods clattered to the ground with sharp cracks. Farther back, citizens holding "Welcome Home" banners were being ushered away by security, while balloons drifted into the night sky.
As Damian stepped down the gangway, a storm of camera flashes exploded before his eyes, and the sound of shutters clicked like machine-gun fire.
He squinted against the glare and saw the nearest New York Times reporter thrust a microphone toward his lips:
"Sir! As a witness to the sinking of the Argonaut cruise ship, can you describe—"
"Get out of the way! Medical passage!"
Before the reporter could finish, two burly Coast Guard members grabbed him and pulled him aside.
With a path cleared, figures in protective suits hurried down from the rescue boat, carrying body bags.
Seizing the moment of chaos, Peter Parker and the others quickly ducked their heads and moved forward.
Harry Osborn led the way, using his body to shield them from the cameras and blinding flashes.
Damian brought up the rear, fending off a forest of microphones with his arms. Suddenly, a tabloid reporter lunged and grabbed his sleeve, shouting:
"Hey, sir! We heard there were mutants on the Argo! Are you—?"
"I'm sorry," Damian cut in, "the authorities are still investigating the incident. We have no further comment."
With a swift backhand motion, he twisted the reporter's wrist. The man yelped in pain and was instantly pulled away by a police dog handler restoring order.
But no sooner had they dealt with one intrusion than another wave of reporters surged forward, microphones thrust out like spears. The overwhelmed officers struggled to hold the line.
Just as Damian and the others were being pressed backward by the media crush, a low, guttural roar echoed from beyond the crowd.
Boom…
Not far away, six matte-black Escalades rolled onto the dock like battleships, their blinding headlights casting the chaotic scene in stark, pale white.
The crowd instinctively parted. Dozens of bodyguards in tactical gear swiftly formed a line—wireless headsets in place, muscular arms interlocked—carving a path through the seething sea of press.
The lead vehicle—an extended Lincoln—screeched to a halt. The moment its door opened, every camera flash in the harbor swiveled toward it.
Norman Osborn hurried out of the car, his shiny, expensive Oxford shoes stepping onto the rain-soaked asphalt.
He was lean, but his suit was crisp and his silver-gray tie neatly knotted. A few strands of white hair graced his temples—usually combed with meticulous care.
"Harry!"
His voice cut through the noise, and his eyes locked instantly onto his son in the crowd.
"Father…?"
Harry Osborn's voice caught at the sound of that familiar tone.
Norman took two quick steps forward and pulled Harry into a tight embrace. His fingers dug into Harry's shoulders, nails nearly tearing through the fabric.
This business tycoon—usually gracing the covers of financial magazines—now had hands trembling so badly he could barely keep hold of his own tie.
When he finally released Harry, Norman's palm remained firmly on his son's shoulder. His expression softened, and his thumb unconsciously traced the sharp line of Harry's collarbone beneath his coat.
"I knew that even though you're not the sharpest tool in the shed," Norman said, relief threading through his voice, "you've always had luck on your side."
Harry Osborn: "…What?"
...
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM—!!
Amid the murmuring crowd, the roar of an engine suddenly split the harbor air. A blue-and-white NYPD cruiser skidded to a halt, tires screeching against the wet asphalt.
The moment the car stopped, the door flew open—and Police Captain George Stacy leapt out like a man possessed, his badge glinting coldly under the searchlight.
"Move!" he barked.
He shoved aside a reporter blocking his path and elbowed a burly cameraman out of the way. His movements were sharp, fluid—nothing like those of a man in his fifties.
Spotting the commotion, the three Osborn bodyguards instantly formed a human wall, boots planted in a tight triangular formation.
"Sir, please step back—"
But George Stacy ignored them and charged forward.
Seeing he wouldn't be deterred, the first bodyguard reached to intercept him. In a flash, Stacy seized the man's wrist, twisted it hard, and drove his knee into the elbow.
A sharp crack echoed—and the bodyguard crumpled with a groan.
The second guard swung a heavy fist straight at Stacy's face.
Whoosh!
The punch whistled past Stacy's cheek—but he seized the opening. His right hand snapped up like a blade, striking the side of the man's neck with surgical precision.
Thud.
The two-meter-tall guard collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut.
The third bodyguard, having witnessed his comrades' fates, wisely abandoned hand-to-hand combat and yanked out his stun gun.
But before he could pull the trigger, Stacy spun and delivered a brutal kick with his steel-toed boot.
Clang!
The weapon spun through the air, shattered against a distant wall, and broke into pieces.
In the same motion, Stacy's elbow pressed hard against the man's throat. His voice was ice.
"Before you make another move, remember this: the throat is one of the body's most vulnerable areas. It houses the trachea, carotid arteries, and cervical spine. A solid strike can crush the larynx, cause swelling, obstruct breathing—or worse. People have died from less."
He leaned in slightly. "So ask yourself: is Norman Osborn paying you enough to die for him?"
The bodyguard froze, sweat soaking through his shirt.
Hell no, he thought. I barely make enough to cover rent—let alone die over it.
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