After Norman Osborn finished outlining his "Green Goblin Ideological Transformation Implementation Plan," Xingqiu suddenly let out a soft chuckle and asked:
"Has Your Excellency ever considered… having your son injected with the Green Goblin Serum?"
Norman set his marker down calmly. His gaze was sharp, clear as polished glass.
"I've thought long and hard about that," he said. "When I accepted the military's contract to replicate the Super-Soldier Serum, I hoped to use that research to cure the genetic illness in my bloodline."
He paused, then added firmly:
"But I've changed my mind."
"Oh?" Xingqiu's eyes gleamed with curiosity. "Why?"
Osborn walked to the panoramic floor-to-ceiling window, his silhouette framed against the glittering skyline of New York City.
"The serum did cure my condition," he said, voice steady. "But the cost was too high. One man's health should never come at the expense of public safety. The sins I've committed… they end with me."
Xingqiu's smile deepened. "Even if it means watching your son suffer—perhaps even die—you wouldn't do it?"
Norman turned, meeting the blue-haired youth's gaze with unwavering resolve.
"As a father, I want nothing more than for Harry to live a healthy life. But as a citizen, I cannot sacrifice the lives of millions for the sake of one. The collective good must come first."
He swept his eyes across the sterile lab, then declared:
"Tomorrow, I will destroy all data related to the Green Goblin formula. That abomination will not survive another day."
"An interesting choice," Xingqiu murmured. "But… what if I still had Pure Water?"
Before he could finish, Osborn interrupted—not with anger, but with unnerving smoothness:
"My apologies. I spoke too loudly just now."
Then, locking eyes with Xingqiu, he asked, voice low but urgent:
"Comrade Xingqiu… do you truly still possess Pure Water?"
Xingqiu's lips curled into a knowing smile. "A few drops remain. However…"
He let the silence stretch before continuing:
"My price is steep. Think carefully."
Osborn didn't flinch. "I anticipated this. Please, go on."
"Ten million U.S. dollars," Xingqiu said, "and full technical schematics for the Green Goblin Armor. I'd originally asked you to destroy all your Goblin-related data—but it seems that's no longer necessary."
Without hesitation, Osborn replied: "No problem."
He strode to the lab's reinforced safe, retrieved an encrypted hard drive, and placed it on the table.
"This contains all data on the latest iteration of the battle armor. The funds will be wired to your designated account by 9 a.m. tomorrow."
Xingqiu chuckled softly. From his sleeve slid a small, exquisitely crafted glass vial. Inside, a silvery liquid shimmered with an otherworldly luster—nothing like the crude plastic containers used in earlier experiments.
"This," he said, pushing it forward, "is the last drop of Pure Water."
He added casually, "Transfer the ten million to Mr. Diluc at Angel's Share. I'll collect it myself."
Osborn accepted the vial with reverent care, inspecting it with palpable relief.
"Thank you, Comrade Xingqiu. You'll always be a trusted friend of the Osborn family—"
He looked up—but the blue-haired boy had vanished. So had the hard drive.
---
Under the cover of night, Seventh Avenue was sealed off. Viper Castle—its structure mangled like prey torn apart by some colossal beast—lay exposed beneath the bruised New York sky.
Dozens of NYPD cruisers, an FBI black SUV, an ATF bomb squad truck, and emergency vehicles encircled the site. Rotating sirens bathed the street in violent pulses of red and blue.
News helicopters thundered overhead, their searchlights slicing through smoke like restless phantoms.
"Back up! Stay behind the line!" NYPD officers barked, struggling to hold back a surge of reporters.
The air reeked of burnt cordite and blood—a nauseating cocktail that clung to the back of the throat.
Firefighters and paramedics combed through the wreckage, their movements grim.
"Another one here!" a firefighter yelled. His team pried aside rubble to uncover a charred, limbless torso.
White sheets fluttered over stretchers—most victims were beyond saving. Even seasoned ER doctors turned away, gagging at the carnage.
At the crater's heart, ATF Senior Demolitions Expert Agent Kane crouched beside the twisted remains of a Freightliner truck, thermal imager in hand. NYPD Chief George Stacy approached, boots crunching on debris.
"Unmanned vehicle," Kane said, voice chillingly calm. "Carried at least five tons of military-grade C-4."
He gestured to the precise devastation. "Whoever did this is a master. Detonation timing, charge placement, blast vectoring—all calibrated to within micrometers. The shockwave was directional. Total destruction inside a 50-meter radius… yet windows on adjacent buildings are barely cracked."
He held up an evidence bag containing a warped metal fragment. "Radio-guided elevation detonation. This wasn't just an explosion—it was a symphony."
Before he could continue, FBI Behavioral Analyst Morris arrived, tablet in hand. "Chief, intel confirms the Viper Gang planned to ambush Night Owl tonight."
He swiped to profiles of Diluc and the Punisher. "Both have motive. Diluc's known for fire-based tactics. The Punisher? Explosives are his signature. But this…" He frowned. "This feels more like a black-ops strike."
"I'm leaning toward the Punisher," Morris added.
Just then, a forensic tech sprinted over, waving a soot-blackened metal plaque. Etched into it was a stark, unmistakable skull.
"The Punisher's calling card…" Stacy muttered.
But Kane shook his head. "No. Look." He pointed to a holographic overlay of the blast pattern. "The shockwave shows a spiral diffusion—requires exact ratios of multiple explosive compounds. The Punisher? He favors overwhelming force, not surgical precision."
"But residue tests came back positive for RDX/TNT," another tech interjected. "Diluc's flames wouldn't leave that signature."
The debate swirled—but George Stacy had already tuned it out.
Expert-level demolitions. Superhuman timing. A vendetta executed like clockwork…
His eyes drifted to the distant glow of Angel's Share, its red neon sign pulsing like a heartbeat in the night.
"Notify all units," he ordered, voice heavy with exhaustion—and certainty.
"The Punisher is our primary suspec
t… but form a special task force. I want a full manifest of every superhuman active on this block tonight."
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