Mary Jane Watson knew her current assignment was glorified busywork. As an intern, reading through a file that a senior reporter like Ned Leeds had already thoroughly dissected was essentially redundant labor.
But she didn't skim. She read every single page of the restaurant bombing file.
The deeper she dug, the more the inconsistencies glared at her. First, the motive was entirely nonexistent. The victims were ordinary citizens with zero ties to organized crime, corporate espionage, or supervillain activity. It was a complete dead end for standard police profiling.
Second, and more importantly, was the bomb itself. Ned had interviewed over a dozen witnesses—including patrons sitting only two tables away from the blast zone. Not a single one of them reported hearing an explosion. They all described a sudden, blinding flash of green light, followed instantly by searing heat. People hadn't even realized a bomb had gone off until the tables were already on fire.
A bomb that leveled a dining room but produced absolutely no concussive sound? It defied fundamental physics.
Mary Jane tapped her pen against her chin. If this is highly advanced, silent explosive tech, why haven't the police escalated the case to the Avengers?
She flipped to the back of the file. Ned had actually anticipated that exact question. He had utilized his extensive network of NYPD contacts to find out why the police brass were keeping S.H.I.E.L.D. and the superheroes out of the loop. The response Ned recorded was chilling: every single detective who tried to push the case up the chain of command was quietly instructed to drop it.
There was a deliberate, internal suppression campaign happening within the NYPD.
Mary Jane closed the folder. She thought of Gwen. Gwen's father was a police inspector in Manhattan. Did he know about the cover-up?
George Stacy would have greatly preferred an overt threat.
Sitting behind the heavy wooden desk of his precinct office, Stacy rubbed his exhausted eyes. He had been quietly pushing his detectives to dig into the recent string of silent bombings and missing persons cases. He fully expected pushback. He expected an angry phone call from the Commissioner, or a veiled warning from Internal Affairs, or even a brick thrown through his living room window.
He got absolutely nothing.
There was no pressure. No warnings. No reassignment orders. The silence was terrifying. It meant whoever was orchestrating this conspiracy was so utterly confident in their cover-up that they didn't even care if a precinct captain was digging around. They knew he would find nothing.
Peter Parker had sat in Stacy's cruiser and flat-out stated that Norman Osborn was the prime suspect. Peter recognized the explosive residue as Oscorp-manufactured pumpkin bombs.
But Stacy had been a cop for a long time. Criminals needed a motive. Norman Osborn was a ruthless, cutthroat billionaire, but he was a businessman. Blowing up a random restaurant or kidnapping a nobody warehouse worker like Arnold Donovan yielded zero profit. It made absolutely no sense for a CEO to risk his empire for petty, random terrorism.
"There's something else hidden underneath this," Stacy muttered to the empty room, closing the Donovan file. "A much deeper play."
The Osborn estate was situated deep in upstate New York, far from the noise of the city. Despite the family's immense wealth, the property was shockingly grim. There were no groundskeepers, no maids, and no live-in butler. From the outside, you would never guess it belonged to one of the richest men on the planet. Norman Osborn was aggressively frugal regarding his personal environment.
"Welcome, Dr. Hamilton. Thank you for making the drive."
Norman stood in the heavy oak doorway, personally greeting his psychiatrist. Norman wore a thick cardigan, his face lined with exhaustion. He let out a long, helpless sigh. "My condition seems to have deteriorated over the last week. I need... I need your help, Barton."
Dr. Barton Hamilton stepped into the foyer, dusting snow from his expensive overcoat. "It's an honor to be of service, Mr. Osborn. When was our last session? Several years ago, I believe?"
"Three years," Norman corrected, his voice tight. "Please, come in."
Upstairs, Harry sat silently on the edge of his bed.
He had seen his father bring the unfamiliar doctor into the house. Harry reached into his pocket and pulled out the small, highly advanced mechanical spider Peter had built for him.
When Peter had confronted Harry with the theory that his father might be orchestrating a supervillain network, Harry had fiercely denied it. He knew his father was a cold, manipulative corporate shark, but a mass murderer? A terrorist? Harry couldn't accept it. But the seed of doubt had been planted. Harry needed to know the truth.
Harry set the metal spider on the floorboards. He pulled out his phone, synced the Bluetooth controls, and quietly steered the drone out the bedroom door, slipping it through the air vents to track his father.
Norman led Dr. Hamilton into a dimly lit, sparsely furnished study. Hamilton opened his leather briefcase. He pulled out a heavy brass incense burner, set it on the mahogany coffee table, and lit a stick of dark, strangely scented incense.
Thick, sweet smoke curled into the air. Norman lay back on a leather recliner, his eyes fluttering shut as he breathed in the heavy scent.
"He's back, Barton," Norman whispered, his hands gripping the armrests. "He's here again."
"You mean the Green Goblin?" Hamilton asked, his voice low, steady, and clinical.
"Yes. I can hear his voice in my head."
"Alright, Norman," Hamilton said soothingly. "I want you to take a deep breath. Repeat after me: the Green Goblin does not exist."
"But he's there," Norman gasped, his knuckles turning white. "I can hear him laughing."
"Repeat the phrase, Norman. The Green Goblin does not exist."
Norman squeezed his eyes shut, remaining entirely silent.
"Listen to me, Norman," Hamilton said, leaning forward in his chair. "Your schizophrenia is rooted in profound childhood trauma. Your mind created the Green Goblin as a defense mechanism—a ruthless, vicious monster designed to protect you from the people who bullied and belittled you. But you are a powerful man now. You are Norman Osborn. You built a global empire. You do not need the monster anymore. Let the incense calm your mind. Repeat after me."
Hamilton's voice took on a hypnotic, mesmerizing rhythm. "The Green Goblin does not exist."
Norman stopped trembling. His breathing slowed.
Then, Norman opened his eyes.
The helpless, exhausted vulnerability vanished from his face instantly. His gaze was completely cold, sharp, and entirely lucid. He looked directly into his psychiatrist's eyes.
"Did you receive a small metal sphere, Barton?"
Hamilton froze. His clinical posture shattered. The color drained completely from his face as he stared at the billionaire.
Norman smiled. A slow, chilling grin that stretched just a little too wide across his face. He leaned his head back against the leather chair and closed his eyes again, looking perfectly at peace.
"The Green Goblin does not exist," Norman murmured happily.