No sooner had Chief George Stacy stepped out of the police station than another familiar figure arrived.
Norman Osborn.
As the chairman of Osborn Group, Norman moved through the station with ease. No one stopped him, no one questioned him. A few nods, a few murmured greetings, and the guards silently unlocked the door leading to the detention area.
Moments later, he stood outside the holding cell.
Inside, Spencer Smythe—the disgraced engineer once hailed as the creator of the Spider-Slayer—sat slumped against the wall, wrists locked in cold steel cuffs. The moment he heard the soft cough from beyond the bars, his head snapped up.
"Norman!"
Spencer lunged forward, gripping the iron bars with trembling hands, trying desperately to push his face closer.
"It wasn't Spider-Man," he blurted out in panic. "It was Batman!"
Norman's brows furrowed slightly.
"Batman?" he repeated calmly. "Explain everything. Slowly."
Spencer nodded frantically, fear overpowering any sense of dignity. He recounted the night in detail—how he had spotted someone he believed to be Spider-Man moving toward Central Park, how he followed him, and how the fight that followed shattered every assumption he had.
"The suit, the methods—nothing matched Spider-Man," Spencer said hoarsely. "That man… he used fear. Traps. Explosives. He fought like an executioner, not a hero. There was a bat symbol on his chest."
He swallowed hard before continuing.
"Norman, I can still be useful. Get me out of here. I swear I can capture him alive next time. I still have value!"
His voice cracked.
"I have children. They need their father. I can't rot in here!"
Officially, Spencer had been charged with intentional destruction of protected plants and animals, but everyone involved knew that the sentence—three to five years—was only the beginning. Once the investigations deepened, the truth behind his projects would surface.
Norman studied him silently.
"You said his methods were more ruthless than Spider-Man's?" Norman asked after a pause.
Spencer nodded vigorously, his eyes haunted.
"I had so many weapons prepared… and they didn't matter. He blinded me with quicklime, shocked my systems, destroyed everything with timed explosions. I never stood a chance."
He leaned closer, desperation spilling from every word.
"Norman, please. Just give me one more chance."
Swish.
Without warning, Norman's arm shot through the bars.
His fingers wrapped tightly around Spencer's throat.
The sudden pressure lifted Spencer off the ground. His legs kicked helplessly as air vanished from his lungs. Norman's face twisted—not in rage, but in cold calculation.
"Next time?" Norman whispered. "No, Spencer. You already failed once."
His grip tightened.
"I don't waste money on failures."
Despite being well past fifty, Norman held him effortlessly, like a predator lifting prey.
"You were a core member of Osborn Group," Norman continued softly. "You know too much."
Spencer's eyes widened in terror.
"You will commit suicide before midnight," Norman said calmly. "If you don't…"
He leaned closer, voice dropping to a lethal murmur.
"Your children. Your family. Your friends. They will die one by one because of you."
Click.
Norman released him.
Spencer collapsed onto the floor, gasping violently, tears streaming down his face. By the time he looked up again, the monster was gone.
Norman Osborn turned away, his expression instantly transforming into one of concern—an aging businessman burdened by tragedy.
---
Outside the station, a black luxury sedan waited.
"Father."
Harry Osborn had stayed in the car, avoiding the station entirely. The moment he saw Norman emerge, Harry hurried out, opened the passenger door for him, then slipped back behind the wheel.
"Did Spencer say anything useful?" Harry asked as the engine started. "Do we know who the killer is?"
Norman sighed heavily, staring out the window.
"No. He doesn't even know what the man really looks like. And now he's been charged with those ridiculous crimes involving protected plants. He won't be leaving prison anytime soon."
The car merged into New York traffic.
Harry hesitated before speaking again.
"I remember… Spencer has a son. Paralyzed, right? Around my age."
Norman's voice softened.
"Yes. Tomorrow, go visit his family. Leave them enough money to live on."
He paused.
"Consider it compensation. From Osborn Group."
Harry nodded, though his grip on the steering wheel tightened as traffic thickened.
"Why is traffic so bad?" he muttered, honking impatiently. "Half the cars from Brooklyn seem to be heading into Manhattan. Is there a holiday today or something?"
Norman didn't answer.
---
At the same time, in Brooklyn, the atmosphere was far from calm.
"Chief Stacy."
A tall officer stepped forward and extended his hand.
"I'm Captain Fick, leader of the Brooklyn Special Operations Team. All residents near Dr. Otto's suspected location have been evacuated. We're ready to move."
Chief George Stacy shook his hand firmly.
According to data from the New York Power Bureau, the spike in abnormal electricity usage began shortly after Dr. Otto Octavius vanished. The readings pointed directly to the intersection they now stood on, spanning nearly a one-kilometer radius.
"Thank you for your cooperation," Stacy said. Then his tone sharpened. "Team One, Team Two, Team Three—enter the sewer system from three directions. Search for any suspicious activity."
He turned to Captain Fick.
"You lead your team in from the east entrance."
"Yes, sir."
Multiple police units moved simultaneously, disappearing into the darkness beneath Brooklyn.
---
While the police mobilized, Batman had already reached his destination.
Dr. Otto's laboratory was silent.
Where once dozens of experimental machines had filled the space, there was now nothing—only deep gouges in the walls and floor. Three-toed claw marks, each nearly the size of a motorcycle helmet, scarred the concrete.
Batman knelt, running a gloved hand over the marks.
"The tentacles," he murmured. "Metal limbs inspired by aquatic biology… designed to assist nuclear fusion."
He exhaled slowly.
"Otto installed them directly onto his spine."
Every piece of equipment had been moved. Taken underground.
Batman stood still for a long moment.
He had planned to help Dr. Otto quietly. Thirty million dollars in funding. A shell company already being fast-tracked. Three days—that was all he needed.
But Otto had been too desperate. Too eager to succeed.
"I was too late," Batman admitted silently.
Without the Batsuit, he couldn't enter the sewers. Without allies in the New York Police Department, even wearing it would only end with gunfire and handcuffs.
"And even if I find him," Batman reasoned, "they won't let me handle it."
He turned away from the lab.
There was another battle to fight.
---
Back in Manhattan, the war had already begun—without fists or explosions.
In a lavish mansion, Valentine, one of Osborn Group's major shareholders, trembled uncontrollably. The stench of urine filled the room, forcing several men nearby to turn away in disgust.
A calm voice broke the silence.
"Osborn Group will decline for months," the voice said smoothly. "Perhaps years."
Valentine's knees buckled.
"Human experiments. Underground deaths. Scandal after scandal," the voice continued. "And yet, I am still willing to buy your shares. At a generous price."
A pair of pristine white trousers and polished leather shoes entered Valentine's blurred vision.
"No one in this city," the voice said softly, "is more generous than me."
A cold pair of scissors pressed against Valentine's ear.
"Sign the agreement," the voice whispered. "Become my friend."
Valentine sobbed.
"I… I voluntarily transfer fifteen percent of my shares," he stammered. "To you, Mr. Wilson Fisk."
Kingpin smiled.
As Osborn Group faltered, Wilson Fisk tightened his grip on New York.
And Batman was already too late to stop the first move.
--------------------------------
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