Legacy of Deception

by GhostInTheFrame

Summary:

Being sold to the Black Widow Programme at age 10, Harry Osborn took on the identity of “The Orphan”. Having survived the horror of the Red Room and the consequences of the Blip, he is tasked with a final mission to pay for his sins while managing to deal with the past and everyone it involves.

“The task is clear. You know what’s at stake. Move to New York. We’ve arranged everything. Go to college. NYU. From now on, you’ll take on the identity of Theodore Harrison. Spy on Oscorp. We’ll need you to gather information on their connections to Hydra. Understand who they are. Do this, and the debt is paid.”

Or

Harry in the MCU, taking place after No way home.

Notes:

Hi!

Thanks for reading this fic.

I just wanted to mention a few warnings beforehand:

It features a transgender character, who is faced with transphobia, so if that makes you feel uncomfortable, better skip it.

There is also hints of mental health conditions.

 

I will write a note on heavier chapters.

Stay safe and I hope you like this fic ( as if anyone would read that lol )

Chapter 1: The Ghost of the Past

- A safe house in Europe -

The nightmare is always the same. The sensation of being trapped, caught in the claws of his past, never able to escape.

Harry is small in this nightmare again, just a child. His wrists are shackled to the cold, metal chair. The harsh, sterile scent of the Red Room fills his nostrils, suffocating him. His breathing quickens, heart racing as the shadows stretch toward him. And suddenly he’s older. More mature. His face is strained. His cold looking eyes resemble fear, as someone approaches him.

Dreykov’s figure looms in front of him, taller, more imposing than Harry ever remembered. His eyes gleam with twisted satisfaction.

“You should be grateful, Harry,” Dreykov’s voice slides through the silence like oil. “I gave you a gift. Not many widows get that privilege. I gave you a chance to be something else. Just like you always wanted.”

Harry feels his stomach twist, the words like poison. It wasn’t a gift. It wasn’t a chance. It was control. Dreykov didn’t care about who Harry truly was—he cared about using Harry as a weapon. And Harry had been helpless to stop it.

“Don’t you see?” Dreykov continues, leaning down to meet Harry’s eyes. “You wanted to be a man, didn’t you? You wanted to be free of the chains of your old life. I gave you that freedom. The transition was necessary. For both of us. To make you strong, to make you capable.”

The words haunt him. They’re familiar, in a way. Different people. Same words. He’s heard them before. Not from Dreykov—but from men just like him. From men like his father.

A businessman. Ruthless. Cruel. Cold-blooded. Someone who saw people as commodities. It came from someone who seeks control, power.

He became an asset. A tool. An abandoned child molded to suit his needs. Just like the men who preyed on his family for generations. The legacy of manipulation stretches far.

But Dreykov took it further. He took Harry’s grandness seriously, perhaps too seriously. Where Norman couldn’t see past his pathway he laid out for his “daughter,” dismissed Harry’s potential and discarded him, Dreykov had seen the future—the raw power—and sought to shape him into something greater, something stronger.

“You are in debt, Harry,” Dreykov repeats, his accented voice a serpentine hiss. “I gave you the strength to survive. I gave you the chance to become a man. And what did you do with it?”

Harry feels it then—anger rising within him like a fire, a sick burn that cuts deep. He wasn’t given anything. He was taken, used, molded into someone he never wanted to be.

To become a man—just how you wanted? The words slam into him like a tidal wave. No. This wasn’t his choice. He wanted to transition, yes, but not like this. Not forced. Not manipulated. Not as a weapon.

“I’m not grateful,” Harry spits out, his voice trembling with the force of the anger he has long buried. “You didn’t make me—you broke me.”

Dreykov smirks, his face contorting with the malicious pride of someone who believes he owns everything, even the people he breaks. “You’re just like them,” he says, eyes narrowing, calculating. “Another abandoned orphan, just like all the others. It’s such a shame. You had so much potential.”

The words cut into him. It’s true, in a twisted way. Harry does have potential—potential to be just like them. Just like him. Like Norman Osborn. Like Dreykov. But the thing that Dreykov failed to realize—the thing that Norman had failed to recognize—is that Harry never wanted to be that way.

“I will never be your puppet again, Dreykov.” Harry said, defiance rising in his voice.

Dreykov just smirked, his gaze wandering to something in his hand. He knows what it is. What it does. The Red. Not again.

His heart pounds so fast, “No, not again. No. Please.“ “Keep yourself together. You’re a soldier”, the taunting man in front of him sneered.

Before he can react, the world around him shifts. The walls of the Red Room crack and shatter, and suddenly, Natasha bursts into the room, her fiery eyes locking with his. Yelena and Melina are right behind her, fighting their way through the chaos. Their presence is a beacon of hope—a sharp contrast to the suffocating horror of Dreykov’s manipulation.

“You’re free, Harry,” Natasha says, her voice fierce with conviction, though tinged with sadness. “You’re not his anymore. You never have to be his again.”

The sound of gunfire and explosions fills the room as they fight, shattering everything in their path. For the first time in years, Harry feels the chains around him loosen, feel the pressure lift. But even in the midst of the escape, even as the Red Room crumbles, Harry can’t help but feel the weight of Dreykov’s influence lingering. Was this freedom? Was this what he had wanted?

As Natasha pulls him away from the wreckage, the sound of Dreykov’s voice echoes in his ears: “You owe me for this. You will always owe me.”

⸻

- Years after the Void – 2025 -

Harry wakes up with a jolt, drenched in sweat. The nightmare lingers, the echoes of Dreykov’s words still hanging in the air like a shadow over his mind. “You owe me.” His chest rises and falls as he tries to shake off the suffocating feeling, but the weight remains.

He’s older now. He will never become accustomed to his nightmares. They are the only thing that stayed. After Natasha Romanoff died. After he was sent to the Red Room. After he had to abandon his only family.

His life was stolen from him. Five years gone. The world around him changed. And now, he was left with nothing. Living in Europe as an outcast, with a makeshift family. It was all a farce. Nothing about it seemed real, nothing felt real either. Harry didn’t feel anymore.

The memories were fragmented, fading like a half-forgotten dream. Being sold to the Black Widow Program. Forced to become an assassin. Then saved, only to vanish—only to come back and realize that his savior was gone. Everything had been ripped away from him. All for a price he never agreed to pay.

The endless nightmare of Dreykov’s influence never truly stopped. No matter how far he tried to run, it always crept back, a shadow over his every move. And now, that shadow loomed again in the form of another duty, a lifelong bill.

The thing about being trapped in a debt you never owed was that you couldn’t escape it. The task wasn’t over. His work wasn’t over. He wasn’t free. The mistakes, the things he had been forced to do, they haunted him like ghosts, but they didn’t matter. He couldn’t change them. He and his family—Yelena, Melina, Alexei—they were all stuck in the same position. They had to pay for something they never intended to do.

Interpol’s Special Division had offered them something: the chance to be useful. To go on missions, to do good. To stay safe, if only for a moment. And so they agreed. They took the chance to build something, to gain a semblance of purpose, even as they continued to carry the weight of their past. Even as Harry knew that the shadows of his old life would never fully leave him.

Suddenly, he’s pulled back into reality, a phone rings, the sound of it sharp and jarring against the stillness of the room. He looks at it, dazed, the haze of the nightmare and remembrance of the past still clouding his thoughts.

The voice on the other end is cold, detached. “The Orphan.”

Harry’s heart skips. The past isn’t done with him yet. Another mission.

The voice doesn’t care who he was. It doesn’t ask for his name—doesn’t need it. His old self is buried. He is just The Orphan, the ghost of his past.

“The task is clear. You know what’s at stake. Move to New York. We’ve arranged everything. Go to college. NYU. From now on, you’ll take on the identity of Theodore Harrison. Spy on Oscorp. We’ll need you to gather information on their connections to Hydra. Understand who they are. Do this, and the debt is paid.”

The words burn like acid. The debt. “You owe me. You owe us.” The never-ending debt. His life was never his own, not since the day he was taken. And now, this mission—this new life—is just another chain.

The voice continues, steady and unemotional. “Don’t disappoint us. Failure isn’t an option.”

Harry, still numb, stares at the phone in his hand. The last shred of hope he’d had, the last ounce of freedom, feels like it’s slipping away. Again. Like always.

The voice hangs up. And Harry begins to pack his little belongings into his bag.

⸻

- Safe House – Kitchen, Early Morning -

Harry stared blankly at the breakfast table, the words from the phone call still echoing in his mind. He’s not hungry. He never really is.

Yelena, Melina, and Alexei were sitting nearby, each of them sharing their own quiet, conflicted thoughts about what was happening.

Yelena was the first to break the silence. “You’re really going through with it, huh?” Her voice was sharp, but her eyes avoided his, as if afraid of his response.

Harry sighed, looking down at his hands, the weight of the new identity in his pocket—a passport, a new life, Theodore Harrison. It was a forced identity, one he never asked for.

“I don’t have a choice,” he said quietly. “It’s my mission. The last one.”

Melina, always the practical one, gave him a solemn look. “You’ll be in New York, in the heart of the problem. But you don’t have to do it alone. If you need us…”

Alexei nodded firmly, his gruff voice adding to Melina’s reassurance. “We’ll come for you. You’re not just Theo, you know. You’re more than that. You’re family, Kid.”

Harry felt a flicker of warmth, but it was fleeting. He knew they cared, but this was his burden to bear. He had no identity left—no one left. He was just a ghost, a soldier trapped in a mission.

“I know,” he muttered. He thought of Natasha, she did it too. To do good. Better. He finds some peace in that thought.

Yelena reached across the table, her hand resting gently on his. “We’ve all had our scars, Harry. But you don’t have to be who they made you.”

The words hit him harder than he expected. They saw him. They understood him. And yet, he couldn’t escape the pull of the mission. The need to do what he had been told, to play his part.

“Good luck,” Melina said softly, before standing and walking away.

Alexei clapped him on the back, his large hand heavy. “Just remember, you’ll always have family.”

Harry didn’t say anything. Instead, he stood up, feeling the weight of the next step pressing against him. He had no choice but to walk it.

 

- Airport, Early Evening -

The plane ride was long and quiet. Harry stared out the window, watching as the horizon slipped away behind him. The past—his real past—seemed so far away now, a life that belonged to someone else. A life that always belonged to someone else. It was never really his.

His thoughts were interrupted by the hum of the plane’s engines, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. There was nothing familiar about this—nothing solid. He wasn’t running anymore, but it felt like he was still falling, still lost.

He thought of Yelena, of Melina, of Alexei. But mostly, he thought of her—the girl he used to be, the one Norman had erased. His father had announced her death, his supposed death. Harriet Osborn was gone. And the world would never know what had really happened to her.

Norman’s words came back to him, sharp and cutting: “Harriet died during the Blip. There was no body to return.” His father’s lie—an easy way to cover up his abandonment. Using the events of the blip as an excuse for his cruelty. But in reality, Harry had been discarded, sold to Dreykov. A father too cruel to accept the truth of who his child wanted to become. Taking him away from his only friend. Who has long forgotten he existed in the first place. Only leaving him with this cherished memory, a safe space he returned to, after the torture. The missions. The Red Dust. Dreykov. His sperm donor of a father.

Dreykov had always been a shadow over Harry’s life—cruel and distant, but in some sick way, Harry had been a prize to Dreykov. Just like he once was, for his father. The only heir of Oscorp Industries - forgotten, replaced by somone who resembles him. Mary Jane Osborn. A young woman, Norman adopted after his own “daughter” never returned. The pit in Harry’s stomach deepens. But he’s got nothing left to loose now. Maybe payback isn’t such a bad idea after all.

As the plane descended into the city, and the lights of New York twinkled below, Harry couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of coming home. But the idea of a home stopped existing, when he had been “sent to boarding school in Europe”. Realising that it had never really existed for him. Not the way it should have. Not in the way it could have.

⸻

- Stark Tower, Night -

Peter Parker stood on the rooftop of Stark Tower, his eyes scanning the city below. The air felt thick, the energy of the city buzzing around him like static. His Spider-sense was tingling, but it wasn’t the usual sharp alert that came with immediate danger. This was different—softer, more subtle, like a whisper on the wind.

He couldn’t explain it, but there was something off. Something was about to change. And his senses told him it had something to do with the Oscorp building that loomed just across the skyline. A place he once visited regularly, an echo from the past.

Peter had always been drawn to the city’s pulse. It was part of him now, as much as the suit he wore. But tonight, that pulse felt wrong.

His gaze lingered on Oscorp’s towering structure, the neon lights of the city flickering below.

Something was coming.

His heart quickened, but Peter couldn’t place why. Whatever it was, he knew one thing—it wasn’t over yet.

And whatever it was, it had everything to do with the building ahead.

Chapter 2: A new face in New York?

Summary:

Harry’s arrival in New York didn’t go as unnoticed as he’d imagined, didn’t it Gwen?

- New York City, Late Night -

The taxi ride from the airport was a blur of neon lights and tired eyes. The city felt both foreign and familiar, a cold, indifferent pulse beneath the glow of skyscrapers. The cacophony of honking horns, the occasional shout from a passerby—it was all too much, yet all too little. It was the city where anything could happen, where a man could disappear or be reborn, depending on the direction of the wind. But Harry didn’t need to disappear. He was already invisible. Trapped behind a wall of glass, reaching out but never touching. Existing but never really taking part. How could he? He wouldn’t know how to engage.

He paid the cab driver without a word, slipping a few bills into his hand before stepping out into the night air. The cool breeze cut through him like a knife, but it wasn’t enough to numb the ache gnawing at his chest. He adjusted the strap of his bag, the weight of his new life sitting heavy against his shoulder. Theodore Harrison. The name felt like a shackle, not a chance at freedom. Still, he had to make it work.

Harry stood outside the apartment building, looking up at the towering structure. A far cry from the penthouses and luxury that had once been his world. But it was a safe place. A temporary place. It would have to do for now.

He let himself inside, the dim light of the lobby barely cutting through the shadows. The receptionist barely looked up as he signed in under the alias that had been prepared for him. It was a ghost’s name. The name of someone who could blend into the city without raising an eyebrow. That was the plan. Or at least the illusion of a plan.

The apartment wasn’t much, just a small, sparse studio with a bed, a desk, and a single window that gave him a view of the city skyline. The room felt cold, and the silence pressed in on him like a weight. There was no warmth, no comfort here—nothing that could tie him to his past. It was exactly what he needed.

He dropped his bag onto the floor and sat down on the edge of the bed. His mind spun, the phone call still echoing in his head, the coldness of the voice telling him exactly what he had to do. He would infiltrate Oscorp. He would gather information on their Hydra connections. And, in return, the debt would be settled.

Harry ran his hand through his hair, trying to shake off the weight of it all. There was no getting out. There was no escape. Not now. He was still that orphan, that ghost. No amount of time, no distance could change that.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a knock at the door.

⸻

-Harry’s Apartment Building, Early Morning -

Harry stood by the door, hesitant. He hadn’t expected a visitor. But he opened it anyway, finding a woman standing in the hallway, her hair falling in soft waves around her shoulders, her expression guarded but curious. She was wearing a jacket and jeans—stylish yet casual. There was something about her that seemed oddly familiar, though Harry couldn’t quite place it.

“Hi,” she said with a friendly smile. “I’m Gwen. Gwen Stacy. I live next door.” Her voice was warm, but her eyes carried the sharpness of someone who had learned to stay alert. She tilted her head, watching him carefully. “I noticed you moved in. I figured I’d introduce myself, you know, in case you need anything. It can get lonely in this building.”

Harry blinked, caught off guard by her directness but grateful for the simple gesture. “Uh, thanks. I’m Theodore. Theo. I just moved in.”

Gwen smiled, taking a step back. “Well, if you need any recommendations for food around here or just someone to chat with, don’t hesitate to knock.” She gave a small wave before continuing, “Welcome to the neighborhood.”

Before Harry could reply, she was already walking down the hall, her footsteps echoing softly in the quiet building. He stood there for a moment, staring after her. Something about Gwen’s presence felt different—there was a certain energy about her, a liveliness that he hadn’t expected from a neighbor in a building like this.

Gwen Stacy. The name tugged at something in him, a connection he couldn’t quite place. The brief encounter had left him with an odd feeling—like an unfamiliar memory slipping through his fingers, only to be forgotten again. Does he know her?

Shaking it off, he closed the door, leaning against it for a moment as he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He hadn’t expected anyone to notice him, not in this life. And certainly not her. He quickly pushed the thoughts away. This wasn’t his life. He couldn’t afford distractions. Not yet.

⸻

- The Apartment, Night -

That night, he sat at the small desk in the corner of his apartment, the glow of his laptop illuminating his face. His fingers hovered over the keys, the weight of his mission pressing down on him. Oscorp. It was always Oscorp. It had always been the symbol of his past and the chains that kept him tied to a life he never wanted.

But now, in this strange new chapter, it was the key to his future. Or perhaps, the key to his revenge.

He ran through the details of his mission one more time: infiltrate Oscorp, gather information on their ties to Hydra, and then disappear when it was done. Theodore Harrison would be the face he showed to the world, but the real man was still Harry Osborn—the son of Norman Osborn, the man who had cast him aside and replaced him with someone else.

But Harry wasn’t just a replacement. He wasn’t just a shadow.

He would prove that.

The apartment seemed quieter now, as if the world had faded away. He closed the laptop with a soft click, the screen going dark. There was no more planning to do tonight. He had to rest, gather himself. Tomorrow, he would step into the lion’s den—Oscorp.

And then, things would change.

— Gwen’s Apartment – this same Evening —

Peter Parker swung into the city, eager to wind down after his patrol. Gwen had texted him earlier, asking him to come by, and it was a welcome break. He was used to the constant hustle of superhero life, but sometimes, a quiet evening with a friend was all he needed.

When he knocked on the door, Gwen greeted him with a smile, and they exchanged their usual casual banter.

“Hey, Spidey,” she said, grinning as she opened the door. “Long day?”

Peter stumbled and gave her a small smile.

Gwen chuckled, gesturing toward the small living room. “You’re lucky I wasn’t buried in homework or doing something else. It’s been a pretty crazy week.”

“Tell me about it,” Peter said, flopping down on the couch. “I think I’ve dodged more than my fair share of bad guys lately.”

Gwen went over to the kitchen counter and poured two glasses of water. “It’s always something, isn’t it?”

Peter grinned and leaned back, taking a deep breath. “Yeah, the usual. What’s up with you?”

Gwen set the glasses down and sat on the chair across from him, folding her arms as she looked at him with a mix of curiosity and thoughtfulness. “So, there’s something I wanted to mention. The guy who moved into the apartment next door to me? His name’s Theo Harrison.”

Peter raised an eyebrow, clearly interested. “Oh? What’s up with him?”

“I don’t know,” Gwen said with a shrug. “I haven’t had much of a chance to talk to him, but he’s kind of… different, I guess. He keeps to himself mostly. You know, typical new neighbor stuff.”

Peter’s attention piqued. “Different how?”

Gwen tapped her fingers on the edge of her glass. “I don’t know. He just gives off this vibe, I guess? Quiet, distant. Like, he’s here but not really here, if that makes sense. It’s hard to explain.”

Peter nodded, thoughtful. “Yeah, I get it. Some people are like that—just keeping to themselves.”

“Exactly,” Gwen said, her voice lightening a bit. “I’m probably just overthinking it. But I thought you should know in case you ever run into him. You know, with you being in the neighborhood too.”

Peter gave her a reassuring smile. “Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll keep an eye out.”

Gwen hesitated, a slightly furrowed look on her face. “I don’t know. There’s just something about him that’s… odd. But maybe I’m just imagining things.”

Peter shrugged, trying to lighten the mood. “It’s New York, Gwen. You can’t swing a web without bumping into someone strange. I’m sure he’s harmless. Or, hey, maybe he’s just a guy who likes his privacy. Nothing wrong with that.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Gwen said with a small smile, clearly feeling a bit more at ease. “Anyway, just thought it was worth mentioning. Just in case he’s more than just some weird guy next door.”

Peter gave a playful smile and threw his hands up in mock surrender. “Well, if I run into him, I’ll make sure to give him the ‘friendly neighbor’ routine. Should be fun.”

Gwen laughed, shaking her head. “You really are something else.”

Peter grinned, feeling the weight of the day lift as they bantered. “Hey, it’s what I do best. And speaking of that, I could really use a snack.”

Gwen rolled her eyes. “You’re always hungry. You know where the chips are.”

Peter grabbed the bag of chips from the counter, making himself comfortable again on the couch. “Thanks! I swear, your place is the only one that doesn’t mind my snack attacks.”

Gwen shook her head with a chuckle. “I can’t say I don’t appreciate the company, Pete.”

The conversation shifted after that, as they fell into their usual rhythm—talking about everything and nothing at all. But somewhere in the back of Peter’s mind, he couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, Theo Harrison wasn’t just your average new neighbor.

So when he swung back to his own apartment, he gave her a call.

“Gwen, isn’t there an NYU outing at Oscorp tomorrow?”

“Oh yes, there is. You should totally come. Maybe Theo will be there too. It could be a good opportunity to, you know, have a closer look at him.”

“Gwen. You’re the best. How do I deserve you?”

“Pete, after everything that happened, you deserve everything. I know I’m not Ned or MJ…”

Peter winced, memories of his old friends, Aunt May, and Tony Stark flashing through his mind. His throat tightened. He hated how these moments always led back to them.

“…You deserve a friend,” Gwen finished quietly, sensing his shift in mood.

Peter met Gwen when he started his first semester. Being a shell of his former self, with no family, no friends, no one to trust. Gwen spotted him immediately, her super power of empathy leading them to this deep friendship. It didn’t her long to figure him out, with her mind being as sharp as a blade, but it didn’t change anything. It thrilled her. Being trusted with something. Offering support. She knows what it feels like to start all over again, with her family in Europe. She has experienced loss. And ever since then, it’s been the two of them, and to some extend Mary Jane Osborn, formally known as Watson.

“Mind if I do some digging beforehand?”

“No, go for it. I’d do it myself, but New York never sleeps, so I don’t either.”

“Okay, Pete. I’ll let you know if I find anything suspicious.”

“Thanks, Gwen. You’re the best.”

“Talk to you later, Pete.”

Two hours later, Peter’s phone buzzed with a message from Gwen.

⸻

“Pete, I found something. Well, let me rephrase that. I found nothing that doesn’t scream suspicious. I think he’s connected to Oscorp in a way that we weren’t expecting.”

⸻

Peter frowned. Oscorp? That name never left his mind, and hearing it again made his Spidey-sense tingle with unease. He quickly texted back: “I’m on my way.”

He swung through the quiet streets of Queens, his mind racing with thoughts of what Gwen might’ve found. He landed softly outside her building and made his way upstairs. Gwen opened the door, her expression serious.

“Come in,” she whispered, stepping aside.

Peter entered the apartment, and Gwen led him to the living room, where her laptop was open, filled with articles and government files. On the screen was a picture of a young man, a new student at NYU, named Theo Harrison. Peter squinted at the image, feeling a strange unease.

“I’ve been digging into him,” Gwen said, sitting across from Peter. “There’s something off about this guy, Pete. I think he’s more involved with Oscorp than anyone realizes.”

Peter crossed his arms, watching Gwen carefully. “What makes you think that?”

“He’s a ghost, Pete. I started looking into his background, and there’s literally no trace of him before this year. He just… appears. And now he’s in New York, enrolled at NYU. It’s weird, Pete. And the timing’s off. In the middle of the semester? With everything that’s been going on with Oscorp, I think he’s tied into something bigger.”

Peter looked at the screen again. “That’s… strange. Oscorp is always connected to shady stuff, but this guy? You’re saying he’s more than just a student?”

Gwen nodded. “Yeah, I think so. And what’s even more strange is that the government’s been aware of him too. I’m telling you, he’s got to be involved with something dangerous.”

Peter rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “So what now? We just keep digging?”

Gwen hesitated. “Well, we could use tomorrow as a first inspection. Maybe you could get familiar with him. Befriend him.”

“Befriend him?”

Peter stood up and began pacing, his thoughts moving fast. “Oscorp, a new guy, and now the government? It all sounds like a web of bad news waiting to be unraveled.”

Gwen glanced at him, concern on her face. “What if it’s connected to something bigger, Peter? We’ve dealt with Oscorp before. You know how this goes. And Norman Osborn…” Peter winced at the name, remembering his deceased friend—he had never been able to reconcile the duality of Norman Osborn’s nature. “He’s two-faced. You know that.”

Peter nodded grimly. He did know. Oscorp had always been a shadow in his life, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that this “Theo Harrison” was somehow part of that.

He turned to Gwen. “Let’s keep monitoring him. Starting tomorrow. We’ll figure it out. One step at a time.”

“Agreed,” Gwen replied, though her expression showed she was still worried.

With that, Peter swung back to his apartment, and fell into a deep sleep, dreaming of blue eyes, auburn hair, and whispers of a name not heard for a long time, but never forgotten.

Notes:

I hope you liked it, I’m open for any feedback :)

Chapter 3: The Oscorp Outing

Summary:

A field trip at Oscorp always attracts drama. When doesn’t it.

— In front of the Oscorp Tower – Afternoon —

The sun filtered through the towering windows of Oscorp Tower, casting a golden light across the modern lobby. Harry, in disguise as Theodore Harrison, stood just inside the building, his hands nervously adjusting the collar of his jacket. He had memorized the false identity so many times it had become second nature, but today, standing here, it felt heavier than ever. The walls of Oscorp seemed to pulse with a history he couldn’t shake, and the presence of his father—Norman Osborn—lingered like an oppressive shadow.

But Harry wasn’t here for memories. He wasn’t here for nostalgia. He was here on a mission. Just a mission.

“Okay, Theo,” he muttered to himself, taking a deep breath. “This is just a class outing. No one needs to know who you really are.” He forced a smile, more for himself than anyone else, and followed the group of students toward the elevator.

The group was a mixed batch of NYU students—mostly fresh faces eager to make an impression in the world of science, technology, and business. They were buzzing with excitement as they spoke about Oscorp’s innovations, unaware that the company they were walking into was one of the most dangerous in the world.

His neighbour, Gwen Stacy, standing a few feet ahead, looked over her shoulder with a quick grin. “You excited for this?” she asked, voice light but with that unmistakable edge of curiosity she always carried.

Harry forced another smile. “Yeah, should be fun. I’ve always wanted to see where the big ideas happen, you know?”

“Right,” Gwen said, raising an eyebrow. “Oscorp’s got some crazy projects going on. You might even run into Peter, he’s been looking into stuff here for his own reasons.”

Harry felt his stomach tighten at the mention of Peter. As in Peter Parker. Of course, the universe couldn’t make this easy, could it? Peter was unknowingly tied to everything, a constant reminder of the life Harry had abandoned. A life he was abducted from.

But for now, he would just have to play along.

“Peter?” Harry asked casually, trying to keep his voice steady.

Gwen nodded, a bit absentminded. “Peter Parker, a good friend, he’s been doing some independent research with Oscorp on the side. You know, the usual. Some weird science stuff.”

Harry’s breath caught in his throat. “Right, the usual science Nerd, type of shit.” He bit his lip, glancing at the ground. Peter Parker… the boy who had always been there. The one Harry used to know, the one he used to trust. If only he knew how much Harry had changed, how much he’d been changed. And how much he’d lost. But for now - he had to focus. Stay professional. Keep his guard in check.

They reached the elevator, and the group piled inside, the atmosphere shifting slightly as they all looked toward the top floor where the real tour would take place.Desperately trying to focus on the present, on the mission at hand. He couldn’t let his past distract him.

“Don’t disappoint us. Failure isn’t an option.”

⸻

The elevator doors opened, revealing the sleek, futuristic lab space of Oscorp. Employees in lab coats moved around the room, their eyes flicking briefly toward the group before returning to their work. The room was a sharp contrast to the world outside—clean, calculated, sterile. It felt like a place where secrets were kept, hidden behind glass and steel.

A tour guide led them through the various sections of the lab, explaining Oscorp’s latest projects—cutting-edge technology, genetic engineering, weapons development. Each word felt like a knot tightening in Harry’s chest. He had known about all this before—he had been raised in the heart of it. He had been part of Oscorp’s dark legacy.

“Some of Oscorp’s top scientists are working on the future of energy,” the guide explained. “You’re all lucky to be here today. These projects are ground-breaking, possibly world-changing.”

Harry nodded along, but his thoughts were elsewhere. His gaze flitted from project to project, searching for anything that might give him an edge—anything that could help him get the information he needed about Hydra’s connections, anything that could give him a way out of this life.

He was so caught up in his own thoughts that he almost didn’t notice when Gwen sidled up next to him.

“Hey, are you okay?” she asked, her voice softer now, as if sensing the tension around him.

Harry looked at her, blinking rapidly. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just… thinking.”

She studied him for a second, her brow furrowing. “You don’t look fine, Theo. You’ve been a little distant. Is everything alright?”

He forced another smile, though it felt like his muscles were working against him. “Just not used to being in a place like this. All this high-tech stuff… it’s a lot to take in.”

Gwen nodded slowly. She still looked a little concerned, but she didn’t push further. “I get it. But it’s cool, right? I mean, we’re in Oscorp, of all places.”

Harry’s heart raced at the casual mention of the company, but he kept his composure. “Yeah… cool.”

The guide continued, leading them toward the next section of the lab. Harry’s mind was a whirlwind, his eyes darting from one exhibit to the next. But something was nagging at him. A faint, almost imperceptible hum in the air—a sensation that something was happening. He felt the shift in the air, the pulse that told him something was about to change. And then he saw it—a display of Oscorp’s latest tech, a new kind of energy core that could revolutionize everything.

But Harry wasn’t interested in that. Not right now.

His gaze swept over the room, stopping at one of the high-tech desks in the corner. A familiar figure leaned over a console, glancing into the distance at something. Peter Parker. He was here, in the lab, looking around. Taking the tour, such as he does. But his mind, it also seems to be elsewhere.

Has he noticed him? He’s there, directly in his grasp, it would be so easy to reach out. His longing for connection, a familiar face, someone who once knew him best. An understanding soul. But no, he won’t drag Pete into it. He could never forgive himself, if Parker got involved, most likely hurt during the process. He’d have to stay away from him. It would be better for the both of him, regarding what Harry had become.

⸻

The tour ended quickly, and Harry found himself standing at the edge of the building, pretending to look out over the city, though his thoughts were miles away.

Gwen appeared next to him a few moments later, looking thoughtful. “Hey, do you want to go grab some coffee after this? Pete and I wanted to try this new coffee bar in Midtown. We could hang out, catch up.”

Harry hesitated, a cold shudder running down his back, at the mention of his old friend “Maybe another time. I’ve got some things to do.”

She looked at him for a long second before nodding, a knowing expression in her eyes. “Alright. Just don’t be a stranger. I can imagine how difficult it must be to make friends, I mean with you joining in the middle of the semester.”

“Yeah. Thanks Gwen. I’d like to, some other time perhaps?” She gave him a smile, but Harry couldn’t stop his mind from forming assumptions. Does she know something? Is he too obvious? He needs to put up his game, if he wants to succeed.

As she walked away, Harry turned back to face Oscorp Tower, the weight of his mission sinking into his bones. He wasn’t here to catch up with old friends. He wasn’t here to relive the past. He was here to do a job—and he had to keep moving forward.

Suddenly, his attention was caught by the sharp click of footsteps. Looking up, he saw the familiar figure of Norman Osborn, dressed in his business attire, walking toward him with purposeful strides. His face was sharp, his features set in an all-too-familiar grimace. The years hadn’t softened Norman at all. In fact, they had only hardened him further.

Norman’s eyes scanned the room, never once resting on Theo, but the coldness in his gaze sent a shiver down Harry’s spine. For a brief moment, their eyes met across the room—a flash of recognition, a silent understanding of the past they both shared.

Harry’s heart skipped a beat. Does he know? Norman was too good at hiding his emotions, but Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that something in the air had shifted.

And then, just as quickly as it had come, Norman moved on, his presence lingering like a dark cloud. He was always there, always watching. Even now, even after all this time.

Harry exhaled slowly, a sense of dread settling in. This wasn’t just about gathering intel. This was personal.

At the same time Norman Osborn stepped through the gleaming doors of Oscorp, his shoes tapping sharply against the polished floors. The building was a monument to his success, a place where the future was shaped—his future, the future of the company, and everyone else who would either rise with him or fall beneath his shadow.

The buzz of employees and students filled the air, but it was all background noise. He wasn’t here for them. Not today. His focus was singular, his mind sharp as a blade, cutting through the sea of faces. His eyes swept across the room—young students, eager faces, all there to learn, to contribute to his empire. None of them mattered.

And then his gaze landed on him.

A student, standing with his back to Norman, blending in with the crowd. But there was something about him. Something off. His posture. His walk. The way he moved—fluid, calculated, but there was a hint of something… familiar.

Norman frowned slightly. The figure was young, barely out of his teens, with messy auburn hair and an unremarkable face. He could have been anyone. And yet, Norman’s instincts told him otherwise. There was an unease in the pit of his stomach, a sensation that prickled at his skin, urging him to take a second look.

He didn’t recognize the student’s face. No name, no history. But the way he stood, the way he held himself—it was almost like a ghost from the past, lingering at the edge of his vision. Norman’s gaze lingered a moment longer, brow furrowing.

Why does he feel so familiar?

Norman dismissed the feeling, shaking it off as nothing more than a trick of the mind. It couldn’t possibly be anyone of importance. His eyes narrowed as he turned away, but there was still something gnawing at him, a sensation he couldn’t quite shake.

He scanned the crowd again, trying to focus on the task at hand. Work. Oscorp. The future.

But even as he pushed it down, the feeling stayed with him. The student was still in his peripheral vision, his figure blending back into the group. Norman couldn’t help but feel a strange pull—a nagging question that lingered in the back of his mind. Who was that?

He would forget about it soon enough, he was sure. But for now, something felt… wrong.

With a sharp exhale, Norman straightened his suit jacket and made his way down the hall, his mind already turning to the next project, the next breakthrough. The presence of that student—Theo Harrison, if that was his name—would soon fade into the background, just like everyone else in this building. Just another face.

But deep down, Norman knew that this was a name, a face, that he would remember. Even if he couldn’t yet place why.

Notes:

Let me know what you think!

Chapter 4: Webs of fate

Summary:

Harry planning his first heist into Oscorp territory, but not without being watched.

— Safe House - Early Morning —

Harry stared at the screen of his phone, the message from the Unknown sender glaring back at him. He had only just returned to New York two weeks ago, and already, the pressure was mounting. The assignment felt heavy—like a dark cloud hovering over his every move. His heart began to race, sweat forming at his forehead. He’d barely established his cover, and now they expected results? The first move had barely been made, and he was already being pushed to the edge.

⸻

Mission Report, Agent O

Harry stared at the words for a moment longer, trying to steady his nerves. His new identity, “Theo Harrison,” was still a work in progress.

⸻

The Orphan:

Still a work in progress. Taking time to establish ground for the identity. First approach was made. First data retrieval planned.

⸻

Unknown:

Keep going. Failure is not an option. And be wary of the spider. They tend to bite.

⸻

“The spider?” Harry’s mind raced. What did a spider have to do with…? Oh. Spider-Man. The city’s so-called hero. A supposed menace to the streets.

That’s when it clicked. Spider-Man—the vigilante who’d been in and out of headlines for years. The one who helped people, fought crime, and got in everyone’s way. The one who might pose a very real problem.

Harry shook his head, pushing away the creeping feeling of unease. He had enough to focus on. The assignment. The mission. He couldn’t afford distractions. Still, the idea of Spider-Man—a hero in a city where Harry had no allies—made him question his position in this vast new world.

He had to move carefully. Carefully enough to keep the spider at bay.

⸻

— Stark Tower - Peter’s Room —

Peter Parker’s room was filled with the cluttered mess of a typical college student—papers scattered across the desk, gadgets piled in corners, a half-eaten pizza crust sitting on his bedside table. He was pacing, speaking rapidly to Gwen Stacy, who was perched on the edge of his bed, watching him with concern.

“I tell you, Gwen, about Theo? You’re right. He seems off,” Peter said, running a hand through his hair. “For someone majoring in bioengineering, he was way too interested in spacing out rather than paying attention during the tour. All he did was watch and observe. Too quiet. I don’t know… there’s something about him. He feels familiar, but I just can’t place it.” He paused, looking at Gwen with a frown. “You were right. I think Spider-Man needs to keep an eye on him.”

Gwen raised an eyebrow. “Spidey? You mean, really? You think he’s dangerous?”

Peter’s expression turned serious. “I don’t know. But I think we need to do some more digging into him. I’ve got a bad feeling about it, Gwen. And you’re right, there’s just something about him that’s bugging me. And have you seen how Norman looked at him? I swear that the gears in his head were turning. He must be working for them. Maybe I’m just being paranoid, but I don’t trust him.”

Gwen nodded, her fingers tapping lightly on her phone. “Alright, I’ll help. We’ll find out who this Theo really is. If he’s hiding something, we’ll uncover it.”

Peter’s brow furrowed as he thought of Theo’s strange behavior, and how familiar his presence felt. But he couldn’t put his finger on it—something about Theo’s mannerisms, the way he carried himself. It made Peter’s Spider-sense tingle. And he wasn’t one to ignore his gut feeling.

“I don’t know, Gwen. It’s not just Theo. It’s the way Norman looked at him… I’ve seen that look before,” Peter continued, pacing again. “I’m telling you, something doesn’t add up. I’ve got to keep an eye on him. Maybe I’m just being paranoid, but I trust my gut, and right now, it’s telling me we’re looking at something bigger than we think.”

Gwen stopped tapping her phone and looked at him seriously. “I trust your instincts, Pete. I’ll get on it. We’ll figure this out. But if Norman Osborn is involved—”

“I know. I know it’s risky,” Peter interrupted, his jaw tightening. “But we have to find out what Theo’s really up to. I can’t shake the feeling that something big is coming, and it’s tied to Oscorp. If we’re right, we’ll need all the information we can get.”

Gwen gave him a supportive nod. “We’ll dig deeper. And Pete, don’t go in too hard on this. We’ll get answers, but we don’t want to make waves yet. Just keep it low-key. I’m with you.”

Peter nodded, feeling a little less alone in his suspicions. But the more he thought about Theo, the more he couldn’t shake the feeling that something dangerous was lurking beneath the surface. If Oscorp was involved, this could get much worse before it got better.

⸻
The next day, Harry sat in a coffee shop across the street, facing Oscorp’s towering glass building. The structure loomed over the city, its sleek, polished surfaces reflecting the afternoon light like a monument to his father’s legacy. But for Harry, it was more like a prison—a reminder of everything lost, everything stolen. He could feel the weight of the city pressing against him. He was a man with no real identity, no true past, but here he was, at the heart of it all—Oscorp, his father’s empire.

He tried to push the thought of Norman Osborn aside, but it gnawed at him. What did Norman know? What did he suspect? There was no way to know for sure, but Harry had to stay one step ahead. For now, the mission was all that mattered.

His fingers tapped nervously on the coffee cup in front of him. He couldn’t afford any mistakes. His cover had to hold, his mission had to succeed. But his mind kept drifting back to Norman. The way he had studied him the other day—those calculating eyes. Norman was no fool. The gears in his head were turning, and Harry needed to be careful.

He needed a plan. Fast.

He took another sip of his coffee, eyes scanning the streets as he tried to keep a low profile. That’s when he spotted it—the garage. Hidden behind an array of vehicles and secured gates, a small, unassuming entrance. It was the perfect way in.

A small grin tugged at his lips. His ticket into Oscorp was now clear. But it wasn’t the only thing on his mind.

And Spider-Man? Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that the webs of fate were closing in around him. There was a reason why his mission had landed him in New York, in Oscorp. Fate had a way of intertwining lives, and it was no coincidence that he was here.

Little did he know, that certain arachnid was sitting on the opposite side of the street, keeping his own watchful eye on the man who called himself Theo Harrison.

Chapter 5: Suspicion lurking in the shadows

Summary:

Harry breaks into Oscorp, being followed by a two legged arachnid. Will he succeed?

Peter Parker had always been good at noticing the small things. It was something that came with being Spider-Man. A flicker of movement in the corner of his eye. A shift in someone’s posture. The way a person walked, like they were hiding something. And ever since Theo Harrison had entered his life, Peter couldn’t shake the feeling that the new student was hiding something—something dangerous.

He had tried to dismiss it. Theo seemed like just another kid trying to make it in the big city. But there were moments, brief flashes of recognition in the other man’s eyes when they talked—moments that made Peter’s spider-sense tingle.

Peter had started following him. Not physically, but tracking his movements. Small things. Theo was too careful about where he went. Too precise. He wasn’t just another college student trying to fit in. No, there was something darker there.

Peter had tried to focus on other things—his studies, his work as Spider-Man, the looming threat of Oscorp—but his thoughts kept circling back to Theo. Then, after one particular run-in with some shady characters near an Oscorp facility, Peter had a theory. Theo wasn’t just some unlucky guy caught in the web of Oscorp’s corruption. He was involved.

Peter had followed him to an alley one night, only to see Theo take on a group of thugs. He wasn’t just good at defending himself. He was… skilled. Too skilled. His moves were fluid, calculated, and deadly. It was like watching a trained assassin. That’s when Peter’s suspicions turned to certainty.

He watched from the shadows, waiting for the moment when the young man would slip up. When the pieces would finally fall into place.

Theo didn’t seem to notice Peter’s presence as he dispatched the thugs with practiced ease. He moved like a ghost—no hesitation, no mercy. And there was something else in his eyes—something dark and haunted. Peter’s gut told him that Theo wasn’t just another pawn. He was part of something bigger, something dangerous. And that was the moment Peter connected the dots.

Hydra.

The cold, efficient way Theo moved. The precision of his strikes. The look in his eyes—it all pointed back to his time as a Hydra agent. He was the perfect weapon, trained from a young age to fight, to kill, to survive.

Peter felt a wave of dread wash over him. He had no proof. Not yet. But everything about Theo screamed Hydra. His suspicion only grew stronger as he watched the young man leave, his figure disappearing into the night.

But it wasn’t just Peter’s gut instinct that led him to these conclusions. Gwen had recently uncovered information that tied into Peter’s growing concerns. She had been investigating the elusive “Orphan Assassin,” a name that had come up in multiple intelligence reports linked to various underground organizations. A cold-blooded, highly trained operative working for Hydra. After looking into it more deeply, Gwen had sent Peter an encrypted message, showing him a series of photographs—one of which had to be a younger Theo Harrison in a training facility marked with Hydra’s insignia.

Theo had to be the Orphan. The skilled movements, the haunted eyes, the mission—everything pointed to Theo being a weapon created by Hydra. And now, that weapon was walking around New York.

Theo was hiding something. And Spider-Man was going to find out what it was.

⸻

— Oscorp Parking Garage, Night —

The following night, Peter, still in his Spider-Man suit, was perched atop a nearby rooftop, his eyes scanning the Oscorp parking garage below. He wasn’t sure why he was there, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something big was about to happen.

Gwen:

Be careful, Peter. You never know what lays under that disguise

Pete:

Thanks Gwen, I will. But I need to do this.

Gwen:

I know, with great power …

Pete:

You’ve got it.

He ignored the last ring if his phone, as he saw him approach the Oscorp premises.

Theo was standing near the entrance of the garage, looking like any other person walking to their car, but Peter could tell something was off. The way he carried himself. The way he looked around, as if scanning for threats.

Peter had never seen Theo in action before—not like this. His earlier suspicions had only grown, but now, watching him from a distance, they felt like something more than just a gut feeling. Theo had to be involved in something. The question was, what?

Peter’s spider-sense buzzed just as Theo stepped into the parking garage, moving with a purpose, and the young man’s quick reflexes didn’t go unnoticed. A car passed too close to him, and in a flash, Theo ducked, narrowly avoiding being clipped by its side mirror. Most people would’ve stumbled back in shock, but Theo was already on the move, his body reacting before his brain could even process the danger.

Peter’s instincts kicked in. He needed to follow.

⸻

— Oscorp Basement, Secret Lab – Late Evening —

Peter had managed to tail Theo through the shadowy hallways of the Oscorp building, his senses alert. There was a nagging feeling in the back of his mind, a feeling that he wasn’t alone. As he rounded a corner, he saw a figure slip into the lab entrance just ahead. It was Theo, but there was something different about him now. He wasn’t just a student. He wasn’t just a person lost in the chaos of Oscorp. He was… a man on a mission.

Peter quickly dropped down behind a stack of crates, using the shadows to stay hidden. His heart raced as he watched Theo reach for a security panel, his hands moving with practiced ease. He wasn’t hacking; he was bypassing the security, and Peter could only guess how many times he’d done this before.

A sharp intake of breath followed. Peter’s eyes widened as Theo reached into his jacket, pulling out a small, sleek device—a small EMP disruptor. He activated it with a simple click, and the security cameras around them flickered and went dark.

“That’s it,” Peter muttered under his breath. “I knew it.”

Theo wasn’t just trying to get into Oscorp’s secrets. He was trying to take something. Something valuable. And Peter needed to find out what.

He took a deep breath and stepped out of the shadows.

“Freeze!” Spider-Man called, his voice cutting through the tension in the air.

Theo turned at the sound, his body tensing immediately. He didn’t seem surprised, just… resigned. He stood there for a moment, eyes scanning Spider-Man. His face was partially obscured by a mask, but the weight of his gaze was enough to make Peter feel as though Theo had already seen through his disguise.

“You,” Theo said, his voice cold but steady. “I knew you’d show up eventually.”

Peter narrowed his eyes. “You know who I am?”

“More than you think,” Theo replied, his tone sharper now. “But I’m not here to fight you. I’m here to expose something bigger than either of us.”

Peter’s eyes flickered to the door they had both come through. “So, this is about Oscorp. You’re working with them? Or are you here to destroy them?”

Theo stepped closer, his voice dropping lower. “Neither. I’m here to expose them. To end the legacy of destruction they’ve caused. But I’m not alone. And you’re not going to stop me.”

Peter was silent for a moment, processing Theo’s words. There was a bitterness in Theo’s voice, a sorrow that caught him off guard. But Peter wasn’t about to trust him—not yet. He’d been betrayed too many times before.

“So, what now? You gonna keep playing these games?” Peter asked, his eyes scanning for a way out.

“I’m not playing games,” Theo replied. “But you don’t know what’s coming. There are things happening behind closed doors here that will destroy everything. And I can’t let that happen. Neither can you.”

Peter’s mind raced. He was torn between his instincts to stop Theo and the weight of his words. Something told him that the pieces were starting to fall into place. He didn’t trust Theo, but for the first time in a long while, he realized… maybe they were on the same side.

“I don’t know if I can trust you,” Peter said slowly, “But I’m not gonna let you blow this all up either.”

Theo smiled grimly. “Then we’re at a crossroads, Spider-Man. Let’s see where it takes us.”

Just then, the sound of footsteps echoed in the distance, and both of them froze.

“They know we’re here,” Peter muttered, his eyes darting toward the exit.

Theo was already moving, his focus razor-sharp. “Let’s go.”

And just like that, the two of them were gone, disappearing into the shadows of the Oscorp basement, a fragile alliance forming under the weight of their shared mission.

Notes:

Tell me what you think!

Chapter 6: Whispers in the Dark

Summary:

An abandoned subway station. An argument. Norman being sus. Do I need to say more?

The air in the abandoned subway station was heavy with the scent of rust and old concrete. The flickering lights cast long shadows, and the distant rumble of passing trains echoed in the silence. Harry leaned against a rusted pillar, catching his breath. The chaos at Oscorp still clung to him, but here, in the quiet of the station, he could finally let the tension slip away.

Spider-Man perched on a nearby bench, watching him, silent behind his mask.

“So,” Spider-Man spoke up, breaking the silence, “That was some quick thinking back there. Didn’t expect you to just… let me go.”

“I’m not your enemy,” Harry said, pushing himself off the pillar. He walked over to Spider-Man, glancing around. “I’m not Hydra, and I’m not here to hurt people.”

Spider-Man raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “Then what are you? You don’t just break into Oscorp unless you’re either suicidal or have a plan.”

Harry smirked. “Both.” He shrugged slightly. “I’m nothing if not ambitious.”

Spider-Man raised an eyebrow, clearly not expecting the response, but he kept his focus. “I get the ambitious part, but I’m not sure you’re getting the suicidal part. You’re not exactly running on a shoestring budget here, are you?”

Harry shrugged, his expression turning serious. “No. But sometimes, you’ve got to be willing to risk everything to make the right move. Oscorp and Hydra? They don’t play fair. So neither do I.”

Spider-Man’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not buying it. Not yet. Why are you so sure about Hydra?”

Harry nodded. “I trust my sources. If they want me to pay that debt, they better be sure.”

After a tense silence, Spider-Man spoke again, his tone softer. “Alright, then. But if you’re really not with Hydra, I suggest you keep your distance from them. They’re not the kind of people you want to get mixed up with.”

Harry nodded slowly, his mind already racing with plans. He wasn’t about to get distracted by Spider-Man’s warning—he had his sights set on bigger things.

“Noted,” Harry said, his tone final. “But if I’m going to take them down, I need to be as close to them as possible.”

Even though Spider-Man’s face was hidden behind his mask, Harry could feel the weight of his gaze. There was a subtle shift in the way Spider-Man turned his head, just slightly, as if a quiet judgment passed between them. Harry couldn’t see his eyes, but he knew the look—one that said you’re not fooling anyone. It was the kind of look that suggested Spider-Man didn’t buy the act, that he thought Harry was overestimating himself, convinced he could handle everything alone.

Harry caught the shift in posture, the almost imperceptible tilt of the head, and immediately felt the weight of it. He straightened up, his jaw tightening. “I’m fine,” he said, his voice cutting through the quiet. “I’ve been fine for a long time.”

Harry’s voice was sharp. “I’m not the one who needs help.”

After a long pause, Spider-Man stood up from the bench, stretching his arms above his head in that familiar, almost too casual way. “Alright, alright,” he said with a half-smile. “I get it. You don’t need me to babysit you. But, uh, don’t think for a second that I won’t be keeping an eye on you. You can’t just waltz into Oscorp like that and expect nobody to notice.”

Harry snorted. “Great. Like I don’t have enough people watching me already.”

Peter gave him a playful grin. “You’d be surprised. I tend to stick around when there’s trouble.” “Just remember,” he said, his voice echoing slightly in the emptiness, “It’s okay to ask for help when you need it. You’re not as invincible as you think.”

Harry turned, glancing over his shoulder, his words cold. “Oh, I know. No one is. I never have been. That’s what they told me ever since I was born. No news to me.”

With that, Harry started to walk away, leaving Peter in the quiet, abandoned station. Peter didn’t follow. He knew when not to push.

 

— Osborn Penthouse, same time —

The night had settled into a quiet routine at Oscorp’s headquarters. The dimly lit dining room of Norman Osborn’s penthouse stood in stark contrast to the intensity of his daily life. At the dinner table, Norman and his adopted daughter, Mary Jane, sat across from each other. She was dressed simply, in a way that mirrored Norman’s preference for understated luxury. There was something almost nostalgic about these moments—something Norman could almost pretend was normal, like a typical family dinner.

Mary Jane picked at her salad, glancing up at Norman occasionally, though her expression suggested she could sense something was off. Norman had always been this way—distant, wrapped in his own thoughts, often retreating into the walls of his mind even while sitting right across from her. She didn’t push him; she knew better by now.

“How was your day?” Mary Jane asked, trying to break the silence. She offered a small, reassuring smile, a trace of concern in her eyes.

Norman placed his fork down, his tired gaze flicking toward her. “Busy. As always.” His voice was a little more curt than usual, but it wasn’t unusual. “Everything’s fine, Jane.”

She nodded, though her gaze lingered on him. Despite the formalities, she could always tell when he wasn’t being truthful—when he was closing off. But she let it go, continuing to eat in silence as the conversation lulled.

Then, the sharp chime of Norman’s phone broke the stillness.

He glanced at it. Without a word, he picked it up, swiping to answer. The voice on the other end was urgent, clipped. “Mr. Osborn, there’s been a breach at Oscorp. Security’s dealing with it, but we need you to come down right away.”

Norman’s expression shifted only slightly—his features hardened, but the momentary flicker of concern was quickly masked. He placed the phone back onto the table, glancing up at Mary Jane, who had already noticed the change in his demeanor.

“I have to go,” Norman said, his tone shifting to something more businesslike. “There’s been a security issue at the facility. I’ll take care of it.”

Mary Jane, still seated, narrowed her eyes at him. “Is everything okay?” she asked, her voice calm but the faintest edge of worry creeping in.

Norman forced a smile, his facade as perfect as always. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

But there was a pause—a moment where the mask slipped just enough for Mary Jane to see the cold, calculating man underneath. She was his adopted daughter, the perfect image of a family he had created for the sake of appearances. She was his shield, his cloak to hide from the world, but that didn’t mean she didn’t occasionally feel the weight of that position.

Mary Jane stayed seated, her eyes following Norman as he moved toward his office. “Be careful,” she said softly, though her voice barely registered to him. He didn’t hear the worry in her words—he never did.

⸻

— Norman Osborn’s Office, Night —

Norman entered his office with a quiet urgency, shutting the door behind him. His movements were quick, controlled, like a man who had long ago learned how to compartmentalize his life.

His mind was already racing as he sat at the desk, pulling up the security feeds. The breach was a simple unauthorized entry, but he knew better than to ignore it. Whoever it was, they had managed to get past the most advanced systems his company had to offer. Norman’s fingers flew across the keyboard as he ran the footage.

The intruder was cloaked in shadows, moving with a speed and precision that suggested they had been here before—or were skilled enough to navigate it without leaving a trace. A mask obscured their face, but their movements were deliberate, calculated.

Norman leaned forward, narrowing his eyes at the footage. His jaw tightened, but his features remained mostly neutral—no panic, no emotional reaction. This was just another problem, and Norman Osborn had built a career on handling problems.

He picked up the phone and quickly dialed a number. “Get me the head of security. Now.”

As he waited, his mind raced. The intruder had targeted a very specific area of Oscorp’s research wing. Whoever they were, they weren’t here for anything random. This was personal.

His fingers gripped the edge of his desk as he stood, tension creeping into his posture. Whatever was going on, he couldn’t afford to let it disrupt his carefully constructed world—not when everything was riding on it.

The phone buzzed in his hand. “Mr. Osborn, we’ve got it under control,” came the voice on the other end. “The intruders are gone.”

Norman’s lips thinned, but he nodded, already turning his attention back to the security footage. He wouldn’t rest until he had answers.

Notes:

Leave kudos if you’d like, you’ll get a cookie :)

Chapter 7: Safe spaces and soft lies

Summary:

Gwen being suspicious asked Harry to meet up at a coffee shop, emotional chaos ensues as Peter joins the scene.

The street outside was busy, but Harry felt detached from it all. He was walking, but not really going anywhere. His thoughts were heavy—always heavy, ever since the night with Spider-Man. He didn’t belong in the noise of the city, but that was where he found himself anyway.

He paused on the sidewalk, fishing his phone out of his pocket. A text from Gwen lit up the screen:

“Hey, Theo. You free to grab a coffee? Would be nice to talk more.”

Harry stared at the message for a beat. There was something inviting about it, something that made him want to respond. He knew she wasn’t just asking to hang out—there was something else beneath the surface. Her tone was casual, but Harry knew better than to assume it was as simple as it seemed.

After a long pause, he typed out a quick reply:

“Yeah, sure. I’ll meet you there.”

He couldn’t quite explain why he was reluctant. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Gwen—he did, to a certain degree. But something about her, something about her curiosity, made him feel like he had to be careful.

He slipped his phone back into his pocket and started walking toward the café, the weight of his past dragging on him with every step. The feeling that he’s being followed never left him.

⸻

The bell above the door jingled softly as Harry stepped inside. The small café was cozy, the dim lighting casting shadows across the room, while the rich aroma of brewing coffee filled the air. He scanned the room quickly, his eyes landing on Gwen sitting at a small table by the window. She was looking at her phone, but as soon as she saw him, her face lit up with a warm smile.

“Theo! You made it!” she greeted, standing up to wave him over.

Harry offered a tight smile and walked toward her. As he sat down, her eyes lingered on him with a curious intensity. She was glad to see him, that much was clear, but there was something else behind her gaze—a quiet scrutiny, like she was trying to figure him out.

“I’m so glad you could make it. I was worried you might’ve bailed,” Gwen said, trying to sound casual, though Harry could hear the faint concern in her voice.

It was subtle, but it was there. She was testing him.

Harry, always guarded, gave her a half-smile and shrugged.

Gwen raised an eyebrow, her sharp gaze not missing the subtle defensiveness in his posture.

Harry sighed, trying to brush off the discomfort. “Yeah, just been busy.” His voice was flat, a little too forced.

He leaned back in his chair, instinctively folding his arms across his chest. He wasn’t used to letting his guard down, and Gwen’s presence wasn’t helping ease the knot in his chest. He’d been here before—shutting people out, keeping everything buried. He had to. There were things inside him that no one could know, things even Peter wouldn’t have understood. He couldn’t afford to let anyone see the cracks.

Gwen raised her eyebrow again, studying him closely, as though trying to break through his walls. “Busy with what?” she asked, leaning forward slightly. “You’ve been a little… off lately.”

The words hit him harder than they should have. The soft concern in her voice gnawed at him, and Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat. She was getting too close to something he couldn’t let anyone see.

“Just… college stuff. Work stuff,” he said quickly, trying to divert the conversation. He wasn’t going to open up—not now, not like this. But Gwen wasn’t backing off.

“Hm,” she mused, taking a slow sip of her coffee. “You don’t work for Oscorp, do you?”

It wasn’t an accusation—just an innocent question—but it felt like a knife in the dark. Her words subtly tugged at the carefully constructed web of his life, pulling him closer to the thing he was desperate to avoid. Oscorp. Hydra. That name, that weight, threatened to drag him back into a mess he was barely keeping at bay.

“No,” Harry said, brushing it off, his voice too calm, too controlled. “They don’t hire students.”

It was a half-truth, a lie by omission. But Gwen’s eyes never left him, reading him with unnerving precision.

The silence stretched between them, the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air. Harry could feel her waiting for him to slip, to reveal something he wasn’t ready to share. But he wouldn’t—he couldn’t. Not now. Not ever.

Gwen, sensing his discomfort but not pushing too hard, softened her approach. “I get it. Sometimes, it’s easier to just keep things to yourself.” Her voice was gentle, understanding. “I just wanted to check in. Make sure you’re doing alright.”

Harry swallowed, feeling his throat tighten. The words were there, just below the surface, but he clamped down on them, locking them away. He didn’t need her pity. He didn’t need anyone to see the truth of what was really going on.

Gwen didn’t miss it. She always seemed to read people like a book, and Harry wasn’t exactly a master of hiding everything. Still, she didn’t push. Instead, she went for something lighter, trying to chip away at the wall he’d put up.

“I’m fine,” he said, his voice quieter than he intended. “Really. Just… figuring things out. You know, being a regular college guy, dealing with life the way anyone does at this age.”

It wasn’t the truth, but it was all he could give. He didn’t want to open up—not now, not like this. The weight of the secret he was carrying was suffocating, and he couldn’t let anyone in. Not even Gwen.

“Oh yeah, I get it,” Gwen said, smiling with a light laugh. “Adolescence is all about feeling lost. But you’re not alone in it, okay?”

Harry, being Harry, gives her a half-smile and shrugs.

“A regular college guy, my ass,” Gwen thought, but she didn’t press it further. Maybe Peter would get more out of him today.

Just then, the door to the coffee shop opened with a soft jingle, and Harry’s gaze snapped toward it without thinking.

Peter.

Peter walked in, the familiar face pulling Harry’s thoughts back to a place he didn’t want to revisit. Peter, the friend he had lost. Peter, who had suddenly disappeared from his life.

Peter’s eyes found Gwen and Harry almost immediately. He smiled and waved as he made his way toward the table, his presence bringing a strange sense of familiarity.

“Hey, Gwen!” Peter called out, his usual grin on his face.

That voice. He’d heard it before.

A sharp ringing echoed in his ears as recognition hit him like a punch to the gut.

Ever since his training, Harry’s senses had been sharpened—especially his hearing. It had been drilled into him, trained to distinguish voices with pinpoint precision, even in the darkest of places. And this voice… this one wasn’t unfamiliar. It wasn’t Peter’s youthful, high-pitched voice he remembered. No, this was different. Deeper, more mature, a voice that carried with it something Harry couldn’t quite place.

It aligned with something Harry hadn’t wanted to acknowledge.

A voice he recognized. The voice of a certain arachnid.

Harry’s mind raced, but his body refused to obey. The disorienting thought of Spider-Man crept through his mind, wrapping itself around his thoughts like a vice. Had he imagined it? Had he somehow misheard? He clenched his fists, trying to suppress the growing sense of dread. But no. The voice was real.

And it was connected to Peter. Somehow.

Gwen smiled up at him, clearly relieved by the interruption. “Hey, Peter. Glad you could make it!” She turned to Harry. “Theo, this is Peter. We’re best friends.”

Peter’s presence was like a tidal wave crashing into Harry’s thoughts. And Gwen’s words slit though him like ice. Best friend?

Peter’s easygoing grin, his friendly handshake—it all seemed too normal, too familiar. But Harry could feel the dissonance vibrating in the air. This wasn’t right. Something about the moment felt off. As their hands met, a brief, electric sensation shot through Harry’s veins. It was like static, a charge in the air that left his skin crawling.

But Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. That Peter wasn’t really Peter anymore. He wasn’t his Peter anymore.

“Nice to meet you, man,” Peter said, his voice warm but just a touch too casual. “Gwen’s told me about you. You live next door, right?“

Harry forced a smile, his hand tightening briefly around Peter’s, the touch was too firm, too quick. He quickly pulled his hand back, but the unease lingered. sitting back down.

“Yeah, nice to meet you too,” Harry replied, his voice strained, not quite his own, nodding his head slightly.

Gwen, ever the conversationalist, tried to keep things light, glancing between Harry and Peter. “So, Theo, tell us—what kind of music do you like? We need to know if we’re going to have any chance of being friends.”

Harry blinked, momentarily thrown off by the question. But it was Peter who stepped in to fill the space.

“I’m sure Theo has better taste than me,” Peter said with a grin. “I’m all over the place with music.”

The conversation drifted into safer territory, but Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that something was happening here—something he wasn’t ready to face. Every laugh, every smile, felt like it was covering up something deeper. He couldn’t ignore the suspicion gnawing at him.

That voice. He’d heard it before.

The ringing in his ears persisted, and the world around him seemed to blur. Harry’s mind raced to place the connection. He wasn’t imagining things—he knew it. His heightened senses, honed through years of brutal training, allowed him to distinguish voices in ways others couldn’t. And this voice… this wasn’t just Peter’s. It belonged to something darker, more dangerous.

The voice of Spider-Man.

Harry forced his breathing to steady, trying to regain control over the rush of thoughts flooding his mind. He had to focus. He had to stay in the moment.

Spider-Man. Peter. Was it all connected? That would make it complicated. And Harry tires to avoid complicated.

Chapter 8: Fractured thoughts

Summary:

Gwen has to leave, awkward tension between Peter and Harry ( Theo) arises. Harry breaks down (sorta), while Norman reveals more shade, what else …. Oh yeah and Mary Jane is not having his shit.

— Café – Late Afternoon —

The sound of a phone chime cut through the light-hearted conversation, causing Gwen to pause. She glanced at the screen, her expression faltering as she read the message from Mary Jane. The words were brief but urgent. Gwen’s heart skipped a beat. She had to leave.

“I’m sorry guys, I have to leave early. Something came up,” Gwen said, looking at her phone. “It’s school related,” she clarified.

Scrutinizing her, Harry could tell there was more on her mind than just schoolwork. She gave him a warm but calculated smile before standing up to gather her things.

“It was nice catching up, Theo,” Gwen said, her voice light, though there was something about her tone that suggested she wasn’t entirely convinced by what she’d seen. “We should do it again sometime.”

“Sure,” Harry replied, offering a strained smile as he nodded. There was a lingering tension in the air, and he wasn’t sure how to ease it. Gwen had been probing him, asking questions he wasn’t ready to answer. Still, it didn’t seem like she was giving up, and that made Harry feel like he was walking a tightrope.

After Gwen left, Harry was left alone with Peter. The atmosphere felt thick, charged, and Harry felt the weight of it settle heavily on his chest. It wasn’t just the strange interactions with Gwen; it was Peter, too. Something was off about him, something Harry couldn’t quite place. But then again, it wasn’t like Harry really knew him anymore. They had been childhood friends, but so much had changed over the years.

For Harry, Peter had been his only happy place. His safe space in a cold room. Someone who broke him—who reshaped him into the person he was now. Would Peter recognize him if he laid out his cards? Would Peter see the cracks, the lies, the fractured pieces of himself? It didn’t matter. Peter couldn’t know who Harry really was now.

Peter, probably oblivious to Harry’s internal turmoil, slouched in his seat, pushing his empty coffee cup aside. He leaned back, resting his elbows on the table, eyes scanning the room with an unbothered air.

“So, what’s the deal with you, Theo?” Peter asked casually, as if they were just two regular college guys shooting the breeze.

Harry’s heartbeat quickened. Theo—not Harry. That’s what Peter knew him as. And there was something in Peter’s eyes that made Harry uneasy, a kind of curiosity that felt invasive, like Peter was trying to figure him out.

“I’m fine,” Harry said, his voice flat, his fingers drumming against the table as he tried to maintain control of the conversation. The sound of his fingers tapping echoed in his mind, somehow adding to the suffocating tension between them.

Peter raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? Sure about that? I mean, I’m not trying to be rude, but no one really joins school in the middle of the semester without a reason.”

Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Peter’s tone was light, but there was an edge to it, as if he were testing him, prodding. Harry could feel his walls start to crack, but he couldn’t let Peter see the cracks. Not now. Not when he had so many things he couldn’t explain.

“What about you?” Harry deflected, pushing the attention back onto Peter. “What’s your deal? What do you do when you’re not hanging around with Gwen?”

Peter didn’t hesitate, grinning widely. “Oh, you know. I’m just a guy who tries to make it through the day without doing something dumb.” That’s exactly what someone who has something to hide would say, Harry thought, as Peter leaned in closer, lowering his voice a bit. “But you… you’re something different. There’s something about you, Theo. Something that doesn’t add up, as I said.”

Harry’s stomach dropped. It felt like the air between them thickened, but he couldn’t let Peter see how much the words rattled him. The last thing Harry needed was Peter prying into his life, digging into things he didn’t want to acknowledge.

“I’m just a guy trying to make it through college,” Harry said, his voice tight. He hated how much it sounded like a lie. “Nothing more.”

Peter was quiet for a moment, but Harry could feel his gaze on him, analyzing, considering. And then, just as quickly, Peter shrugged, flashing a quick smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Yeah, sure. I get it. We all have our secrets, I guess.”

The conversation shifted to lighter topics—stuff about classes, random anecdotes—but Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that Peter was digging deeper, even when the conversation was surface-level. He was a good actor, Harry would give him that, but something about him felt off, like a layer of falsehood just beneath the surface.

⸻

— Harry’s Apartment – Later That Evening —

Harry could still feel Peter’s gaze on him, even after the conversation had ended. As soon as he stepped into his apartment, the weight of the day settled in like a fog. The air felt thick, and Harry couldn’t find any peace. The feeling of being watched persisted, as if Peter’s words had left an imprint on his mind.

He paced the small apartment, trying to shake off the unsettling feeling. Peter knows something, he thought. He’s onto me. My former best friend. He can’t know. It would cause enormous damage. It would break something that was already beyond fixing.

But what if Peter was just being… Peter? Friendly, yet a little too curious for comfort? Harry couldn’t be sure. The conversation had been harmless, yet it left him with a sense of dread that gnawed at him.

He walked to the window and stared out at the city lights, his thoughts spiraling. Was he really just overthinking things, or was there something more going on?

His mind kept returning to one thing: the voice.

The voice he’d heard when he encountered Spider-Man. The one that had sounded like Peter’s, but wasn’t.

The thought clawed at him. He clenched his fists as he tried to calm the rising panic in his chest. Every step, every interaction with Peter felt like it was leading him closer to the truth. But what if he was wrong? What if Peter wasn’t Spider-Man? Could he live with the doubt?

The pressure in his chest only intensified. Harry knew that the feeling of suffocation wasn’t just from his thoughts; it was deeper than that. A weight in his chest that had been building since his encounter with Spider-Man, the night everything changed. The voice still echoed in his mind. What if he was imagining it? But he couldn’t ignore it.

He needed something to ground him, something to push the anxiety away.

His hands trembled as he reached for his phone, dialing the number he knew by heart—though it had been months since he last called them. As soon as the phone rang, Harry felt the familiar pulse of comfort as it connected.

“Hello?” The voice on the other end was Yelena’s, calm and steady, just like he remembered.

“Yelena,” Harry breathed, relieved to hear her voice. “It’s Harry. I—” He paused, his breath shaky. “I don’t know what’s happening. I can’t stop thinking about… everything. I feel like I’m losing control.”

Yelena was silent for a moment before responding. “Take a breath, Harry. You don’t need to explain everything. Just breathe. You’re not alone.”

His chest tightened, but Yelena’s words had an immediate effect, calming him down just enough to hear her clearly.

“We’re here for you,” Alexei’s deep voice came through the line next. “Whatever it is, we’re with you, kid. Just remember that. You’re not the first to feel like this. Just breathe and listen. Focus.”

Melina, ever the voice of reason, added in a more methodical tone, “It’s okay to feel lost sometimes. It doesn’t make you weak. Just take it one moment at a time.”

Harry exhaled, feeling the weight on his chest lighten ever so slightly. Their support was a tether he could hold onto, even if just for a moment. He wasn’t in this alone. Not anymore.

“Thank you,” he whispered, the words catching in his throat. “I needed to hear that.”

“Anytime, kid,” Alexei said. “We got your back. Just don’t let the panic take over. Stay grounded. We’re here.”

He just couldn’t shake the sensation of being watched, though. The feeling lingered as the call ended, a constant reminder that something was wrong.

⸻
— Oscorp Tower – Norman’s Office —

Norman Osborn sat in his office, watching the security footage of the recent breach. His jaw was clenched, eyes narrowing with suspicion. Whoever had infiltrated Oscorp knew exactly what they were doing. There was no trace left behind—just a hole in the system. The timing was suspicious, and Norman’s gut told him this wasn’t some random attack.

“Keep your eyes open,” he muttered to himself. “The person responsible is close. They’ll slip up eventually.”

“Whatever they are searching for, make sure they never find Project Goblin.”

“Roger, Mr. Osborn.”

The line closed, leaving Norman alone with his thoughts. His mind raced as he replayed the footage, searching for anything, any detail that might give him a clue. Whoever this intruder was, they were smart. Too smart.

Unbeknownst to him, outside his office, Mary Jane stood just out of view, her heart clenching. She had overheard the conversation, her nerves coiling tighter with each passing second. There was no question now. Something was wrong at Oscorp, something dangerous.

She needed to talk to someone about it. Someone she trusted. But who?

⸻

Gwen’s Phone

Mary Jane:

Gwen, can we meet? It’s important, I think. And I don’t feel safe telling anyone else.

Gwen:

Of course, let’s meet at my place. I’ll be there in an hour.

⸻

Gwen sat on her bed, her phone in her hands, the device feeling heavier than usual as she gripped it. She had been trying to piece things together all day—trying to figure out the truth about Theo. But there was so much more to the puzzle than she could wrap her head around. He was a mystery, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something about him was off.

And not just Theo. The more she thought about it, the more she realized that her unease stretched beyond him.

Mary Jane’s text lingered in her mind, twisting her thoughts. “I don’t feel safe telling anyone else.”

What did she mean by that? What was going on behind the scenes that she hadn’t shared? It couldn’t be unrelated. Gwen had heard enough to know that Mary Jane didn’t send messages like that without a reason.

She sighed, setting her phone aside. This wasn’t just about Theo anymore. There had to be bigger questions at play, bigger forces pulling the strings. And Gwen was determined to find out what. No matter where it led.

Her mind drifted back to the text Peter had sent her earlier: “Be careful with Theo. I don’t trust him.” There was a hint of something in Peter’s words—something he wasn’t saying, or maybe didn’t want to acknowledge.

She felt a shiver run down her spine, wondering if Peter’s suspicions were valid, or if she was just overthinking everything. Either way, she couldn’t ignore it any longer.

The doorbell rang, pulling her out of her spiraling thoughts. It was time.

Gwen quickly stood up and moved toward the door, her pulse quickening. Whatever was coming, she was ready to face it head-on.

Chapter 9: Echoes of the Goblin

Summary:

Mary Jane and Gwen putting their heads together. Some new villain fighting Spidey. And Harry is there too? What’s got that to do with Oscorp?

Mary Jane stood at the door, looking more anxious than Gwen had ever seen her. Normally confident and poised, MJ’s expression tonight was one of unease, as if she were carrying a heavy burden.

Gwen stepped forward with a welcoming smile, though the look on her friend’s face gave her pause. “Mary Jane… hey, come in.”

Mary Jane hesitated for a moment, scanning the room like she was expecting someone to be lurking in the shadows. After a few seconds, she walked in and gave Gwen a tight smile. The door clicked shut behind her, sealing them inside.

Without wasting time, Mary Jane’s expression shifted from guarded to serious, her eyes meeting Gwen’s with a weight that had her immediately concerned. “Gwen, I… I need to talk to you about something. It’s big, and I don’t know who else to turn to.”

Gwen’s brow furrowed at the tone in MJ’s voice. The urgency in her words instantly made her set aside whatever she’d been thinking about. She motioned toward the couch, inviting her to sit. “What’s going on?”

Mary Jane took a deep breath before finally meeting Gwen’s gaze, though her eyes flickered nervously around the room. She took a moment before speaking, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s about Norman….”

Gwen’s frown deepened. She had always known that Oscorp, and by extension, Norman Osborn, had a reputation for being shady, but hearing MJ speak with such conviction made it feel far more real—and dangerous. “What did you find?” she asked, her voice calm but with an edge of concern.

“I overheard something. My dad…” Mary Jane paused, swallowing hard. “He was talking to someone on the phone in his office. The door was slightly ajar. He was discussing security breaches, someone breaking into Oscorp, looking for something. And then he said something that… stopped me cold. He said they could never let anyone find out what Project Goblin is.”

Gwen’s heart skipped a beat. Oscorp. That name alone stirred a tangle of questions in her mind. She glanced at Mary Jane, trying to process what she had just heard. “Project Goblin?” she repeated softly, her mind immediately flashing to the many rumors surrounding Oscorp. She’d heard whispers before, but never anything concrete—until now.

“You’re sure you weren’t just hearing things? You know how… intense things can get around Oscorp,” Gwen asked, trying to sound skeptical, but she couldn’t deny the gnawing feeling in her stomach.

Mary Jane shook her head quickly. “No, I’m sure. He was talking in the phone, the door was just cracked. He’s been tense lately. Always holed up in his office, too. He’s not usually a warm guy, but this… this is different.” Her voice faltered slightly, as if unsure whether to continue. “I don’t feel safe talking to anyone else about it, except you—and Pete.”

Gwen nodded, her stomach twisting with a sense of foreboding. It was clear that MJ wasn’t overreacting—this wasn’t just a random conversation, not when her father was involved. “What do you think it is?” she asked, trying to make sense of the fragmented puzzle. “What’s really going on at Oscorp?”

“I don’t know for sure,” Mary Jane said, looking down at her hands. “But the more I dig, the more I realize this isn’t just about money or power. It’s bigger. More dangerous. They’re working on something experimental, something that’s not supposed to see the light of day.”

Gwen’s mind immediately snapped to Theo. There had been something off about him from the moment they met. His secrecy, his odd behavior. All the pieces were starting to connect in a way she couldn’t ignore. Could he be part of this? Could he be connected to whatever dark, twisted project Oscorp was hiding?

“I think I’m starting to put it together,” Gwen said quietly, more to herself than to Mary Jane. “MJ, I’ve been having the same feeling. My new neighbor, Theo… There’s something about him. Something connected to Oscorp. Peter and I, we’ve been keeping an eye on him. Even Spidey’s noticed it.” She paused, her eyes distant as she thought through the implications. “It’s like there’s a link between him and all this.”

Mary Jane’s eyes widened in surprise. “You think Theo’s involved in whatever’s happening at Oscorp?”

“I don’t know yet. But the more I think about it, the more it seems like he’s a part of something much bigger than any of us realize. Oscorp’s not just your average corporation—there’s something they don’t want anyone to know about.”

Mary Jane leaned forward, her voice intense. “I knew you’d get it. I just didn’t know if I was the only one seeing it. We need to keep digging, Gwen. Whatever’s going on… it’s bigger than Oscorp’s usual shady dealings.”

Gwen nodded, her mind racing. Everything she had been sensing, every piece of the puzzle that didn’t quite fit, was starting to come together. But she had to be cautious—whatever they were digging into was dangerous, and they weren’t the only ones who had noticed it.

“We’ll figure it out,” Gwen said, her voice steady, though her mind was already turning over their next steps. “But we have to be careful. We’re not the only ones looking into this, and I don’t think it’s just corporate corruption at play.”

Just as the words left her mouth, Mary Jane’s phone chimed. She glanced at it, her face stiffening at the message. Gwen couldn’t help but notice the look that passed over MJ’s face as she read it.

Norman (Dad)
I can’t make it to dinner today. Something came up at our facility in Jersey, dear. We need to reschedule. I’ve left you some money.

Gwen stared at Mary Jane. Her own suspicion flared as she looked at her friend, who seemed as unsettled as she was.

“Who is it?” Gwen asked, trying to mask the tension that had suddenly filled the room.

Mary Jane swallowed hard before answering. “It’s my dad.”

Their eyes met, and for a brief moment, the weight of the situation settled over them both. Whatever was happening at Oscorp, it was deeper than they’d realized. And they were getting closer to something dangerous.

————————————

Peter swung through the city with a heightened sense of urgency, his mind still turning over the conversation with Gwen earlier. They had met at his place, putting together what they had dug up. Something about Theo, and now Mary Jane’s warning about Oscorp, had him on edge. The web of connections, the shady dealings at Oscorp, and his own secret life were becoming harder to ignore. Every moment felt like the clock was ticking down, but he couldn’t put his finger on what was driving him so frantic.

Then, as if the universe sensed his anxiety, the sound of a loud crash echoed through the streets.

His Spidey-sense tingled.

He swung closer to the source of the disturbance, his heart picking up pace. Down below, a figure was wreaking havoc—a person whose sheer strength was unlike anything Peter had encountered before. The ground trembled beneath the blows, and debris flew in every direction as the man tore through the city, obliterating anything that came in his way.

Peter’s eyes narrowed. Whoever this was, they were enhanced, far beyond what he had expected. Every movement of this man sent shockwaves of destruction through the street.

Peter landed on a nearby rooftop, observing the scene below. He needed to be smart about this. No brute force was going to work here—not with someone this powerful. And there was no way of knowing which powers he had at his disposal. But as he began to plan his attack, he heard a sudden commotion from below.

“Guess it’s not my lucky day,” Spider-Man muttered under his breath, crouching into a ready stance.

The figure moved fast—too fast. For someone so muscular, it didn’t make sense. The street shook with every step he took, and the next thing Peter knew, the figure was charging straight at him.

As agile as he was, Peter dodged, letting the figure crash into a nearby wall, leaving a massive crack in the structure.

“Not bad, but you’re gonna need more than that!” Spider-Man quipped, trying to keep things light, but his mind was already spinning with strategy. The enemy’s strength was off the charts—every hit felt like it could break bones. And just when he thought he was getting a rhythm, the fight shifted.

The figure stopped, tilted its head, and suddenly, Peter was facing a fight he couldn’t predict. The figure mimicked his moves. Almost like a copycat, but somehow… better. More precise. Controlled. Like a video game character who had learned all of Spider-Man’s best tricks.

This wasn’t just strength. This was intelligence. This fight was different from all the others. Spider-Man could tell that this enemy wasn’t just strong—he was fast and unpredictable, able to assimilate his opponent unlike anyone he’d faced before. Spider-Man ducked, dodged, and flipped through the air, trying to outmaneuver his opponent, but it was clear he needed a new strategy.

Just as Spider-Man was about to get cornered by another crushing blow, a familiar voice echoed from the shadows.

“You need a hand, Webhead?”

⸻

— Nearby Café – Night —

Inside a café not far from the commotion, Harry sat at a corner booth, his laptop open. He was working—making plans for his next move. Every detail needed to be perfect. Failure was not an option. Norman was watching closely, and Harry couldn’t afford any slip-ups. The pressure was suffocating.

But just as he was about to dive into his next step, an explosion shook the café. Windows rattled, cups fell to the ground, and the building groaned with the force of the blast. Harry shot up from his seat, instinct carrying him toward the heart of the chaos, into a nearby alley.

His trained eyes quickly scanned the scene. Down the alley, Spider-Man was engaged in a fierce battle. No. It wasn’t just a fight. It was something much worse. The figure, no, the person, was fighting with brutal efficiency. Their movements were sharp, swift—like nothing Harry had ever seen. Spider-Man was struggling.

Harry knew this wasn’t some street brawler. This wasn’t just a random thug. This was something far more dangerous—someone enhanced. And Harry had experience with enhancements. He was enhanced himself.

Seeing the hero about to take what might be his last hit, Harry made a snap decision.

With quick thinking, Harry grabbed a scarf from his jacket and wrapped it around his face, concealing his identity. He couldn’t afford to be recognized. Then, without hesitation, he charged into the fight.

“Need a hand, Webhead?”

Peter turned, his eyes widening as he saw the unexpected figure joining the fray. His voice was calm and collected—this wasn’t the first time he’d seen someone rush to his aid, but something about this felt different. Theo’s presence sent a ripple of confusion through Peter’s mind. What was he doing here?

Before Peter could question him, Theo dashed forward, his movements surprisingly quick and controlled. With a calculated kick, he knocked the enhanced villain off balance, sending the creature stumbling. Spider-Man barely had time to catch his breath before Theo was in the thick of the action, moving alongside him with sharp focus.

“You sure you know what you’re doing?” Spider-Man asked as he flipped to a safer distance, scanning the enhanced villain’s movements.

“I’ve been keeping an eye on things,” Theo replied, his voice cool. “Let’s wrap this up before he does any more damage.”

With a quick series of coordinated moves, Spider-Man and Theo worked in sync, distracting the villain long enough for Peter to land a solid punch to the creature’s chest, knocking the wind out of him. Theo wasn’t far behind, sweeping the legs out from under him and sending the villain crashing to the ground.

The enhanced figure let out an angry growl, struggling to rise, but the combined force of Spider-Man and Theo was too much. They pinned him to the ground, securing his limbs with webs.

Spider-Man stood up, catching his breath. “Nice work, man. Didn’t know you could also minimize trouble, instead of causing it.”

Theo gave him a side eye, his gaze scanning the unconscious body.

Spider-Man paused, his suspicions flaring. There was something about Theo’s calm demeanor—something off.

“We need to check this guy out,” Peter said, moving closer to the unconscious body. “We need to know who sent him.”

As they examined the villain’s suit, Peter’s gloved hands brushed over the fabric, noting the high-tech material. He tugged back one of the sleeves, and the corner of something familiar caught his eye—a small, but distinct logo stitched into the suit.

The Oscorp logo was unmistakable.

Spider-Man’s eyes widened. “This isn’t just a random goon. Oscorp is behind this. They’re experimenting on people.”

Theo knelt beside the unconscious man, his eyes narrowing. “I figured.”

Peter stood, a sudden surge of anger coursing through him. “This… this is exactly what I’ve been trying to warn everyone about. They’re up to something much worse than we thought.”

Theo remained silent, but there was a cold look in his eyes, as if he were already planning his next move. He wasn’t surprised by the discovery, and that was what bothered Peter most. He must be part of it, but how? If he were on their side, he wouldn’t have come to support him, would he?

Harry looked at Spider-Man, his mind quickly working through the situation. He couldn’t let him know too much—not yet. The last thing he needed was to get any more tangled up in Spider-Man’s web.

As they stood there, their eyes met for just a moment. Harry’s face was hidden behind the scarf, but Peter could feel the tension in the air. They were both keeping secrets. But Peter knew, that they were in too deep now.

“Let’s get out of here before the cops show up,” Theo said, turning toward the alley exit.

You’re in too deep now, Harry thought.

—- Oscorp Research Facility in Jersey, Night ——

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering slightly above the wreckage. Glass shards littered the floor, equipment sparked erratically, and one reinforced door had been torn off its hinges.

Norman Osborn stepped into the lab, his presence sharp and commanding. He stopped in front of the cracked containment pod, turning slowly toward Dr. Connors.

“How could this happen?” Norman’s voice was low, but every word hit with weight.

Dr. Connors rubbed the back of his neck, hands unsteady. “The serum was stable. The neural inhibitors functioned through every preliminary test. The mind control should’ve held.”

“But it didn’t,” Norman snapped, stepping closer. “Instead, it broke through your so-called ‘containment,’ nearly leveled the facility, and is now God knows where in the city.”

Connors lowered his gaze, grazing his eyebrows. “If this gets traced back to us…”

Norman’s expression darkened. “We’re already under suspicion. And now, thanks to this little accident, the walls are closing in.”

A long pause settled between them.

“Should we shut it down?” Connors asked cautiously.

Norman stared at him, unreadable. Then, with a step forward, he spoke—his voice cold and final.

“No. We can’t. That would mean the end for every single one of us. Our client won’t accept it. And I intend to keep my reputation.”

He turned slowly, surveying the ruined lab. His tone hardened.

“We’re no fools. We’re Oscorp. And for an Osborn… failure is not an option.”

He pulled out his phone, already dialing. “I’ll make the necessary calls.”

Then, with a sharp glance toward the clean-up crew: “You. Clean this mess up.”

As he disappeared into the corridor, the glow from his phone screen lit his face—unshaken, calculating, dangerous.

Chapter 10: The Quiet of Winter

The sirens had faded behind them, swallowed by the city’s never-ending hum. Perched on the edge of a quiet rooftop, Spider-Man and Harry stood side by side, the night air thick with everything unsaid.

Peter didn’t break the silence right away. He let the moment stretch, watching Theo’s back as the other man scanned the skyline like it was an old enemy. Finally, he spoke.

“If you’re not Hydra… then who are you?”

“That’s not for you to know,” Harry said sharply. “I could ask you the same. Your voice—I’ve heard it before. But do I press you about it? No. I respect your decision to stay hidden.”

Peter blinked beneath his mask, a little caught off guard. “Well, you don’t exactly make it easy to trust you. Everything about you screams suspicious. You’re trained. You move like a soldier. Faster than average. Skilled. I’m sorry if I jumped to conclusions.”

“Even if I was what you think I am,” he said, not facing him, “there are bigger things at stake than what’s between us. Like I said—you’re not my enemy. But you won’t stop me either. I have a debt to pay.”

“A debt?” Peter echoed. “So, what—you’re an ex-criminal now? I read about the Orphan. He looks a lot like you. A trained assassin. Russian intelligence. Who’s your boss?”

Harry turned slowly, his eyes meeting Peter’s through the mask. “You really want to do this now, Parker?”

Peter froze. His stomach dropped. “You know who I am?”

Harry didn’t answer that directly. He just stepped forward, voice calm, laced with something heavier.

“I know more than you think. And to answer your question…”

He paused. Something shifted in his expression. A crack in the armor.

“Ты слышал когда-нибудь, как молчит зима?”
(Have you ever heard how quiet winter can be?)

Peter hesitated. “What does that even mean?”

The Ex-Agent looked past him, to the darkness stretching over the city.

“That’s what it was like in the Red Room. Cold. Silent. You learn to move without sound. To kill without question. And to forget… who you were before.”

His voice dropped to something quieter. “But I never forgot.”

Peter stood still, a chill running down his spine. He wasn’t particularly looking at a threat anymore. He was also looking at a survivor. And maybe, just maybe, someone looking for a way out.

Queens – Late Evening – Rooftop Overlooking the City

The lights of the city twinkled below, casting a warm glow against the cool night air. Peter sat on the edge of the rooftop, mask pushed up halfway, his fingers fidgeting with the torn strap on his glove.

Behind him, Gwen stepped quietly into the light, her scarf wrapped tight around her neck. She had that look—half concern, half “don’t try to lie to me.”

“I figured I’d find you brooding somewhere,” she said, a soft smile playing on her lips as she walked over and sat beside him.

Peter glanced sideways, offering a tired smirk. “I don’t brood.”

“You literally have a rooftop brooding spot,” she countered.

Peter let out a breath, smile fading. “It’s been a weird week.”

Gwen gave him a moment, then said, “It’s about Theo, isn’t it? After your talk, you’ve been following him around more often, haven’t you?”

Peter nodded slowly.

She waited, watching him.

“But it’s not just that, Gwen. This monster of a person, whatever attacked us that day, it’s originated from Oscorp. And Theo… he sort of rescued me. I saw him fight, and after it was done and some truth about Oscorp was revealed, we stood on a roof, and he—he…”

“He what, Peter?”

“He knows. That I’m Peter. I accused him again of his ties to Hydra. Of being the Orphan. A killer. And he told me how it broke him and about the debt he’s paying for it. It could be a lie. I mean, he’s… different. Trained, fast, dangerous,” Peter said. “And I don’t trust him. But I also don’t not trust him. It’s complicated.”

“Sounds like you’re attached,” Gwen said gently.

Peter blinked. “I’m not—okay. Maybe. I don’t know. He’s done some serious things. He’s not clean. He’s hiding a lot. But every time I think I’ve got him figured out, he turns around and does something… human.”

Gwen leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Do you know who he is?”

Peter hesitated. “Not officially. But I have a theory. Something about the way he talks, the way he moves. It’s familiar. I just can’t place it.”

“And you’re still helping him?” Gwen asked.

Peter nodded again. “He doesn’t want help. But even though he’s not with Hydra, he’s tied up in it somehow. And with Oscorp and Norman being as shady as ever, the real threat is still out there. With all the information Mary Jane provides us… how her ‘father’ is acting—he’s never been a great person. Especially not to his children. I speak from experience with… you know, Har.”

Gwen gave him a small smile, laying a grounding hand on his shoulder, gently touching him.

“Well, I can’t let him just do this. Not without supervision. Who knows what could happen? He may think it’s his own debt to pay, but lives are at stake here—his own, included.”

Gwen’s eyes softened. “Well, maybe that’s Spider-Man’s task. But as Peter Parker, you see yourself in him.”

Peter didn’t reply, but the silence was answer enough.

After a long pause, he said, “There’s a line in his voice. Something broken, but… fighting. Like he doesn’t want to be what they made him. And I know what that feels like. Maybe that’s why I can’t walk away.”

Gwen reached for his hand, giving it a light squeeze. “Then don’t. But be careful, Peter. People like that… they’re not always looking to be saved.”

Peter looked out at the skyline again, the wind brushing past them. “Maybe not. But maybe he doesn’t need saving. Maybe he just needs someone to not give up on him.”

Queens – Late Night – Peter’s Apartment

Peter sat at his desk, the soft glow of his desk lamp casting long shadows across the room. His laptop sat open in front of him, the cursor blinking on an empty document. But Peter wasn’t focused on writing anything—his thoughts were elsewhere, and his mind wandered as it had so many times before.

The sounds of the city buzzed below, but in his apartment, everything felt still.

It was the first time in ages that his vocal cords produced the name. It almost felt foreign to him. A painful memory. A memory of his first best friend. The one who had been there before everyone else. The one who had to leave for Europe because his father forced his kids’ path. Dropping all connections, only to find out years later that Norman Osborn’s child didn’t survive the Blip. Tears formed in Peter’s eyes as he thought about her. No. Him. Harry.

After Harry was gone, Peter met Ned in middle school. Ned. Peter had spent so many years by his side, their friendship a constant in a world that had never stayed the same. Ned had always been there, always the one to help Peter navigate the chaos of being Spider-Man. But in the end, even he was taken from him, a casualty of his own stupidity.

Then there was MJ, his former girlfriend. His heart clenched in his chest, reliving the heartbreak he encountered in the past years. Her and Ned not remembering him, moving to Boston, living on. Him staying in New York.

He was older now, and he healed. But it still hurt, sometimes. He went to his closet and carefully unraveled a small box. A box filled with photos of the ones he loved and lost. A picture of him and MJ from the night they’d gone to that diner, the one where they’d barely talked, but the quiet had said everything. Another photo of him and Ned, laughing in front of the high school building, before the weight of their new lives had crushed everything they thought was simple.

And then there was the photo of Tony Stark. Tony, his mentor and the man who had given him the strength to rise above his doubts. Tony had been the father figure Peter had never had—the one who had always believed in him, even when Peter didn’t believe in himself.

Peter smiled softly as he reached for another photo—this one more worn, the edges frayed. It was a photo of Aunt May. The one of her smiling at him with her warm, loving eyes, right before everything fell apart. She had been the rock in his life, the person who had always taken care of him, who had sacrificed everything for him. She had believed in him when no one else did. The photo reminded him of how much he missed her, how her love had been an anchor in the storm of his life. He could almost hear her voice in his head, telling him to keep going, to never give up.

Peter went back to sit in his chair, rubbing his eyes as a wave of exhaustion hit him. His chest tightened as the familiar pain of loss crept in. Tony, MJ, Ned—Harry, gone.

But he had Gwen in his life. Everybody needed a Gwen. She was like the sister he never had. He cared for her deeply. And then there was Mary Jane, while the abbreviated name still cut through him like a knife, they’d grown a solid friendship. Ever since she was adopted by Norman though, he became a bit more secluded. He had been happy for her, but still. He knew of Norman. And he knew that he wasn’t the great father he claimed to be. It just didn’t seem fair to the memory of Harry, to adopt someone this quickly, who also somehow resembled what Norman always wanted him to be.

Peter took a deep breath.

Everything had changed.

He thought about how the world would have looked if they had all made it through. Maybe they could have had a life beyond all of this. But that wasn’t reality. The people he loved were gone, and now it was just him.

And then, there was Theo.

Theo wasn’t like the others. There was a darkness in him—a past Peter couldn’t fully understand. A part of him wanted to turn away, to wash his hands of Theo’s mess, and let him spiral like so many others had. But he couldn’t. He had seen something in Theo—something that reminded him of himself.

Peter had seen the brokenness in Theo’s eyes, that same isolation Peter felt every day. He couldn’t just leave him to face it alone. And if he turns out to be a threat, he’ll be there to manage it.

Peter’s mind snapped back to the present, his gaze fixed on the empty document. The blinking cursor was a constant reminder that he had a decision to make. He was about to walk away from the pain of it all, and do something different. He had a chance to prevent someone else from making the same mistakes that had cost him everything.

With a deep breath, he made his decision. He was going to follow Theo—watch him, learn the truth, and do whatever it took to keep him from walking down the same dark path.

He wasn’t going to lose anyone else.

Chapter 11: The blood we carry

Summary:

A heist gone sorta wrong. Some fluff at a safe house? Gwen and Mary Jane being protective. A blood test result that establishes clarity.

— Oscorp Basement, Secret Lab – Late Evening —

Peter swung into the lab behind Theo, moving with the fluid precision of someone used to navigating tight spaces. The familiar hum of the Oscorp facility surrounded them, the air thick with the tension of their mission. This wasn’t just a typical heist—this was personal for Theo. And Peter could feel it in every calculated step the other man took. Theo wasn’t just stealing secrets; he was trying to take back a piece of his life that had been stolen long ago.

They reached the computer terminal, and Harry set to work immediately, fingers flying over the keys to bypass the security measures. Theo stood guard, his eyes scanning every shadow, every corner, his body language taut with anticipation. He was so focused, it was as though the entire world had narrowed down to the moment they were in.

“We’re really doing this, huh?” Peter said quietly, trying to break the silence. “Breaking into Oscorp … You think it’ll make a difference?”

Harry didn’t look up, his fingers still moving swiftly as he worked the controls. “It has to make a difference, Spider. It’s the only way to end this. And as you probably remember, I didn’t force you to follow me.“

„Yeah, you’re right. Maybe I’m curious myself. Or just suicidal. Maybe both.“

Harry looked up, gave him a small smile, remembering the pun he used during one their first encounters. This was Peter. His Peter.

He was pulled from his thoughts by a tab opening up on the computer in front of them. What it said, left them in shock.

“This can’t be… These protocols… they’re implying he’s working on an enhancement program. With mind control. No… not again. We can’t let that happen,” Harry thought aloud. Goblin serum? Mind control? New Jersey?

“Spider-Man, there’s also a file on you. About what made you… you.”

“Wait, what? Right—I was bitten at Oscorp, but what does that have to do with the goblin serum they’re talking about? Is that what that enhanced person was drugged with? If they use these enhancers on more people, it’ll be like the Red Dust—you know, the one Natasha Romanoff and her sister Yelena destroyed…”

“I know about it, okay?” Theo cut him off. “I know what it feels like. And what you don’t feel when you’re drugged with it. You don’t have to tell me. I know.”

“Well, it would be like that all over again,” Peter said, his voice guarded.

“No. It would be worse. Way worse,” he replied. “

“Dreykov was like my father. But my father was more than Dreykov. More ruthless. More dangerous. Less likely to take risks. And him being HYDRA pushes it over the top.”

Peter watched him, his chest tight. There was something raw in his glance, something that reached beyond the mission itself. He wasn’t just fighting for revenge—Theo was fighting for redemption. For his own sense of self, for freedom from a life that had been forced on him by his father and the Red Room.

“You’re not alone in this fight,” Peter said, stepping closer, his voice firm. “You don’t have to do this all by yourself. I’m in, whatever you say.”

For a moment, Theo stopped, his posture stiff, and his eyes flickered to Peter. The look in his eyes was a mixture of pain and skepticism, like he was questioning everything Peter said. “I don’t know if I can ever be… anything else. I’m a soldier. A killer. That’s all I’ve ever known. And I’m tasked to do this alone.”

Peter’s heart clenched at the words, and he moved to stand beside Theo, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You’re more than that. You can choose who you are now. You don’t have to be a weapon anymore. And sometimes we need to accept help, even if we think we don’t deserve it.”

He didn’t respond, but the brief moment of vulnerability in his eyes spoke volumes. For a fleeting second, Peter saw the person Theo could be, if he was allowed to be anything other than a weapon. But that wasn’t their reality. Not yet.

Before Peter could say anything else, a distant noise interrupted them—a faint sound of footsteps, growing louder by the second.

Peter’s eyes darted toward the door. “They’re coming, again,” he muttered.

Harry was already moving, his posture changing in an instant, a deadly focus settling over him. “We don’t have much time. Download as much as you can.”

Peter finished the final command on the terminal, his heart racing as the files began to download. “We’ve got the data,” he said, his voice low but urgent. He shoved the hard drive into his pocket and turned toward Theo. “Let’s move.”

But just as they were about to exit, the lab door swung open with a sharp hiss, and the unmistakable figure of Norman Osborn stepped inside, flanked by two security guards.

Peter froze. Osborn’s eyes immediately landed on Theo, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. The man standing in front of him was… familiar, but not. Norman’s brow furrowed, his sharp gaze narrowing as he studied Theo. There was something about him—a presence, a way he carried himself—that tugged at a memory Norman couldn’t quite grasp. Yet.

“Who the hell are you?” Norman’s voice was filled with suspicion and barely contained irritation. “What are you doing in my lab, again?”

Harry didn’t flinch, standing tall and calm. He spoke with the kind of confidence that rattled most people. “I’m not here to answer your questions, Osborn. I’m here to expose the truth.”

Norman took a step forward, his sharp features twisting into a sneer. He didn’t recognize the man standing before him, but the way he spoke, the way he held himself—it was unnerving. “I don’t know who you think you’re messing with, kid. I built Oscorp. I own this place. And I don’t take kindly to intruders.”

Peter’s heart skipped a beat. They were out of time. He grabbed the hard drive from his pocket, slipping it into a compartment in his suit for safekeeping. He tried to remain calm, but adrenaline was flooding his system. They needed to leave—now.

“I know about Hydra, Osborn,” Theo said, his voice steady but cold. “I know what you’ve been hiding. Your operations here—your weapons, your experiments—they all tie back to Hydra.”

Norman’s face twisted in disgust, his jaw tightening. He didn’t want to admit it, but he knew it was true. The Hydra involvement, the experiments, the enhancement projects. It had all been a part of his desperate attempts to create the perfect weapon.

“I’m not in bed with Hydra,” Norman snapped, trying to dismiss the accusation. “That’s just a bunch of nonsense.”

Theo’s eyes hardened. “Don’t lie. Your labs are full of Hydra technology. You’ve been helping them build weapons for years.”

Peter’s mind raced. They needed to escape. Fast.

He made eye contact with Theo, nodding toward the exit. “Let’s go,” he whispered.

Theo’s gaze flickered to him, and then back to Norman. “This doesn’t end here, Osborn. I’ll make sure everyone knows who you really are.”

Norman stood frozen, staring at Theo, trying to place the familiarity that gnawed at the back of his mind. But before he could make sense of it, Theo and Peter were already moving. Fast.

The moment they bolted toward the exit, the sound of heavy footsteps rang out behind them. Norman’s voice cut through the chaos, laced with fury. “You think you can just walk out of here? I’ll find out who you are, kid. You can’t hide forever!”

The two of them bolted into the shadows, their footsteps echoing in the silent lab, the door sliding shut behind them. They didn’t stop running, not until they were far enough away to breathe again.

 

— Brooklyn Safehouse, Late Night —

The safehouse was a rundown apartment above an old, shuttered laundromat—just enough heat to keep the chill out and barely enough light to see without squinting. Peter sat cross-legged on the hardwood floor, surrounded by a mess of wires, laptops, half-eaten takeout containers and a useful first aid kit.

Beside him, Theo was quiet, leaned back in a creaky metal chair, eyes fixed on the glow of the monitors. One screen flickered with night-vision surveillances of Oscorp Tower. Another ran decoding software, sifting through terabytes of encrypted files they’d taken earlier in the week. They were close—too close to stop now. Turning to a first aid kit, he began to treat the gash on his arm that he received during their escape. No wounds hurt more the ones that never healed in the first place.

Peter rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand, stifling a yawn. “You ever sleep?” he asked, his voice low but teasing.

Theo didn’t look away from the screen. “Not when I’m being hunted.”

“Nice. Super comforting,” Peter muttered, letting himself slide down until his back hit the cold wall. He stretched his legs out, his feet nudging a paper bag full of fries.

Silence settled again, thick and familiar. Outside, sirens wailed in the distance. Inside, the room buzzed with electricity and quiet tension.

“You ever think about what you’d be doing if… things had been different?” Peter asked suddenly, blinking slower now.

Harry didn’t answer right away. Then: “Yeah. All the time.”

Peter gave a soft, tired hum. “I think I’d be working at a lab. Maybe teaching. Quiet life. White coat. Glasses. You know, the whole nerd package.”

Harry glanced at him, at his Spider-Man suit, the mask that he pulled off because “Theo” had already figured him out. He took Peter in. He was Peter but he also wasn’t. But his glasses—he never got rid of them.

“You already have the glasses,” he said, just the ghost of a smirk in his voice.

Peter let out a short laugh, half-asleep. “Was that a joke?”

“Don’t get used to it.”

The quiet returned, and this time, it felt heavier—but not in a bad way. Like they were both holding something they didn’t have words for. Peter’s head dipped forward slightly, then jerked back up. His eyelids were betraying him.

Harry noticed, watched silently as Peter’s shoulders slowly slumped, his breathing evening out. The screens still glowed in front of them, but Peter was out cold, curled up on the floor, arm tucked under his head like a makeshift pillow.

The Young Man stood up, quietly, moving with the ease of someone who knew how to live in silence. He reached for the worn blanket folded on the back of the chair and stepped over, crouching beside Peter.

Gently, he draped the blanket over him, letting it fall across Peter’s chest and shoulders. His eyes lingered a moment longer.

Then, almost too quiet to be heard, he whispered—

“Sleep tight, Pete.”

He didn’t expect Peter to stir. But in his drowsy haze, Peter’s brow twitched, his lips parting slightly as if he’d heard something. Maybe he had. Maybe he’d remember it in a dream, or maybe not at all.

Harry stood again, silently returning to the monitors, his face unreadable.

And Peter, still barely awake, felt the faintest warmth settle in his chest. Somewhere between memory and reality, the voice felt… familiar.

He didn’t open his eyes.

 

— Early Morning at said Safehouse —

The hum of the monitors hadn’t changed, and the city outside was still wrapped in that gray, pre-dawn haze. Harry was still in his chair, scrolling through code, one leg jittering with restless energy.

Peter stirred on the floor beneath the blanket, shifting slightly, but didn’t wake.

Then came the buzz—soft, vibrating from somewhere in the mess of gear. Harry’s head snapped toward the sound. Peter’s phone.

He stood and crossed the room in two strides, eyes narrowing at the screen. A name flashed, bright and familiar.

Gwen Stacy.

The message lit up beneath it:
“Where the hell are you? Are you okay? Call me.”
Then another.
“You can’t keep going dark like this, Pete. MJ and I are getting worried.”

Harry’s grip tightened around the phone.

Mary Jane. Of course she was with them. She was the girl who replaced him. Or with whom he was replaced with.The perfect daughter. Someone Harry could never be. And they had Pete. They were his perfect people, smart, warm, good. Everything Harry had never been allowed to be.

She reminded him of his failure. Of his past. It haunted him. It’s not her fault, Harry reminded himself. And it’s not Pete’s. Or Gwen’s. It’s my father’s. Maybe even mine.

He set the phone down, face down this time.

A few minutes passed. Then—
A knock at the door. Two sharp raps, followed by a familiar voice.

“Pete? I swear to God, if you’re hiding out again, I’m kicking the door in!”

Harry froze.

Peter groaned from the floor. “Mmnh… what?”

The knock again, louder. This time Gwen’s voice came clearer.

“Peter Benjamin Parker, open up!”

Harry tensed. Peter sat up with a start, blinking blearily.

“Oh, no,” Peter muttered. “I forgot to text her back.”

He scrambled to his feet, nearly tripping over the blanket, while Harry stepped back—instinctively retreating into the shadows of the apartment. Out of sight.

Peter reached the door, cracked it open, and—sure enough—there was Gwen. Pale blue coat. Wild ponytail. Sharp eyes. And right behind her, Mary Jane, arms crossed, eyebrow arched in exasperation.

“Hey,” Peter said sheepishly. “Sorry. Uh. Busy night.”

“You don’t say.” Gwen pushed past him, Mary Jane trailing in behind her.

Peter glanced over his shoulder—Harry was gone from the main room, tucked into the narrow hallway between the kitchen and the bathroom, watching silently.

Harry’s gaze locked on Mary Jane as she entered.

Gwen looked around. “Wow. This place is a disaster. Who’s your roommate, a raccoon?”

Peter gave a weak laugh. “Sort of.”

Harry’s gaze locked onto MJ as she entered.

“So… where is he?” Gwen asked, eyes scanning the room.

“He’s probably trying to stay invisible,” Mary Jane joked. “He’s mastered the art of getting caught. Or maybe he’s scared,” she added, teasing.

Before Peter could answer, Harry stepped forward, silent as a ghost, arms folded.

“I’m not trying to be invisible. And I’m not scared,” he said flatly. His eyes flicked to Gwen. “How did you do it?”

MJ’s expression hardened.

“Do what?” she asked, playing innocent.

“Track us. This is a safehouse for a reason. We’re not supposed to be traceable. Unless…”

His gaze moved to Peter. Peter looked at the floor.

“The phone. You used Peter’s phone.”

“Wait, wait. Hang on. How come you know his identity?” MJ asked.

Harry gave her a look. “Gwen’s probably told you about me. So you probably know I’m trained. For missions.”

“You’re trained to kill,” she shot back.

The air shifted.

Harry’s vision blurred for a second. Heartbeat sped up. Stay calm. Don’t let them see. Can’t let them know. Be strong. Not vulnerable.

“Mary Jane…” Peter said softly, watching him.

“Yes. I am trained to kill,” Harry admitted. “And I did kill. But it was never my choice. That’s why this”—he pointed at the glowing screen—“needs to be stopped. Immediately.”

“You’re keeping secrets,” MJ said. “And people who keep secrets tend to spread lies. My father is one of them. Look where that got us.”

Harry hesitated. “You’re right. I have my secrets. I gamble with the truth. It comes with the job. So you can either believe what little I give you—or not. But I have my mission. I have to finish it. There’s no room for failure. And now that you’re here? You’re in danger. You shouldn’t have come.”

“We’re already in,” Gwen said, stepping forward. “So let’s work together. Four are better than one.”

Peter sighed. He knew Gwen—when she made up her mind, she wouldn’t back down. Same with MJ.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Harry echoed, frustrated. “She’s involved with Oscorp. If Norman finds out she’s suspicious—working with us—he might kill you.”

“Norman’s my father. Maybe not by blood. But he won’t hurt his own child,” the girl said. “Is he ruthless? Sure. A shady businessman? Yeah. A murderer? We’ll see. But deep down? I think he loves me. Or something like it.”

Peter watched Theo. His expression unreadable. Were his eyes watering?

No. Just tired. Probably.

“Anyway…” Peter broke the silence. “Theo—anything new in the files?”

————————

The apartment felt a little more alive now, buzzing with quiet movement. Gwen and Harry were hunched over the computer, eyes glued to the data they had stolen. Peter and MJ were cross-referencing notes with the surveillance feed, which still flickered faintly from the corner monitor. Every so often, someone would mutter a thought, a theory, a warning—but otherwise, the tension spoke for itself.

“Okay,” Gwen said, brow furrowed as she flipped through a decoded file. “There are dozens of encrypted references to an off-site facility. Location… redacted. Figures.”

“Coordinates?” Harry asked, already typing.

“Not exactly. But look here—logistics shipments listed from Newark Industrial Depot. They’re routing to a private hangar. No Oscorp branding, just some obscure shell company called ‘Horizon Logistics.’”

“Horizon’s one of Oscorp’s shadow fronts,” Peter muttered, rubbing his forehead. “I saw it a few times during my internship. The weird files they said not to open.”

“So, New Jersey,” MJ said flatly. “Figures, after that one text message, Norman sent me.”

Harry clicked open a satellite image. The facility looked unremarkable—a big steel hangar surrounded by nothing but shipping containers and cracked concrete. No obvious labs. No visible guards.

Which meant one thing: whatever was inside, wasn’t meant to be seen.

“It’s too quiet,” Harry said. “No surveillance inside. That’s deliberate. They’re hiding something serious there. And if Project Goblin is active—it’s probably being tested off-grid. Somewhere unmonitored.”

“Or underground,” Peter added, tapping the side of the screen.

Harry stood abruptly, grabbing gear from the nearby table—a compact harness, lightweight armor plating, a side pouch with syringes and tools. His focus was razor-sharp.

“I need to prep. If I go in blind, I’ll get myself killed.”

Peter stepped forward, brows raised. “If you go in? I’m coming with you. We agreed. I’m part of this now.”

Harry didn’t argue. “Fine. I won’t try to stop you. It’s your decision.”

Pete gave him a small, knowing smile. “Good. I’m not great with orders anyway.”

From across the room, Gwen watched them. Mary Jane leaned against the wall beside her, arms folded.

“You two got this broody vigilante tag-team thing down,” she said.

“Then let’s make it a quartet,” Gwen offered, stepping in. “MJ and I can sneak into Oscorp. Norman’s office might hold more keys to the Goblin project. Or surveillance we can’t access remotely.”

“Good,” Harry nodded. “Check his backup servers, look for mirrored files. And don’t stay long. If Norman catches wind of this—”

“He won’t,” Mary Jane interrupted. “He underestimates me.”

He raised an eyebrow but didn’t press it.

Peter pulled up a digital map and drew a quick plan. “Okay. We split up. Gwen and Jane infiltrate Oscorp Tower. Theo and I head to New Jersey—quietly. We’ll use the train yard nearby and go in through the storm drains. No choppers. No attention.”

“What if there’s security inside?” Gwen asked.

“There will be,” Harry replied. “But if we time it right, they won’t know we’re there until it’s too late.”

Peter sighed, half-exhausted already. “Classic Parker luck.”

MJ stepped over to the map. “And if it is a trap?”

“We improvise,” Peter and Harry said at the same time.

They glanced at each other. A silent understanding passed between them.

—————

— Oscorp Tower, Midday —

Norman Osborn stood rigid before the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office, the New York skyline sprawling beneath a thick veil of storm-gray clouds. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. Another breach. Another failure.

He had been there—present—and still, the intruders had slipped through with everything they came for: encrypted data, classified experiments, sensitive intel on Project Goblin. And worse—proof. Evidence that tied his operations to HYDRA.

They knew where the next facility was.

It was only a matter of time before they made their next move. And Norman Osborn couldn’t afford to be outplayed again.

The soft, reluctant voice of Dr. Curt Connors pulled him back from the depths of his spiraling thoughts.

“I’ve analyzed the blood sample, sir.”

Norman turned, stepping beside Connors without a word. The screen in front of them glowed dimly, a string of genetic code flickering like a countdown.

Connors hesitated. “It’s… a match. Genetically. Partnerland markers confirm what you suspected. It’s your bloodline. Your—”

“I know,” Norman said flatly, cutting him off.

He stared at the screen a moment longer, then turned sharply on his heel and strode out of the lab, his footsteps striking the floor in clipped, agitated rhythm. The dial tone of a call being made echoed faintly as he disappeared into the hallway, leaving Connors in stunned silence.

Notes:

Tell me what you think :)

Chapter 12: The Name Beneath the Skin

Summary:

Surprise. Norman being a dick and outing his child. But not in the way you think.

— The Safehouse – Night Before the Break-In —

The room buzzed with tension and quiet urgency. Gwen sat cross-legged on the floor, a laptop balanced on her knees, blueprints and schematics projected onto the wall behind her. The glow lit up her focused expression. Across from her, Peter leaned over the back of the couch, studying the plans, while Theo—Harry—stood apart, arms crossed, eyes trained on the Oscorp layout as if he knew it by memory. Because he did.

“Jersey facility’s tight,” Gwen said, zooming in on a hidden access corridor. “But not impossible.”

Peter let out a soft whistle. “Oscorp’s still running that deepwater energy project?”

“That’s the cover,” Theo replied without looking up. “Underneath that floor is where they bury their mistakes.”

Peter looked at him sideways. “You’re sure about the schematics?”

Theo didn’t answer immediately. Then, quietly, “I’ve been there before.”

Gwen shot Peter a look—Don’t push—and kept going. “Norman’s schedule says he’s off-site for a board meeting tomorrow night. That’s our window.”

“Which means his office will be clear,” MJ added from the doorway, arms folded. “I’ll get us in.”

Peter blinked. “You’re serious?”

“I’ve been inside more times than I care to admit,” she said, voice cool. “I know where the hidden drive is. You just worry about Jersey.”

Peter looked between them. “So we’re pulling off a two-pronged break-in? At the same time?”

“We are,” Gwen said, voice steady. “Unless you want Oscorp and Hydra to keep winning.”

Theo finally spoke. “Time’s ticking.”

Peter studied him again. Something didn’t add up—but it wasn’t the intel. It was the way Theo moved, the way he spoke, the shadows under his skin like he was constantly bracing for a hit that hadn’t landed yet.

Still, he nodded. “Alright. Let’s do it.”

⸻

The wind swept across the rooftop, ruffling Peter’s curls as he leaned against the rusted railing, eyes fixed on Oscorp’s shimmering tower in the distance. Theo stood a few feet back, silent, his silhouette sharp against the city’s glow.

Peter broke the silence. “You ever wonder what it’d be like if none of this happened?”

Theo didn’t look at him. “What?”

“The powers. Oscorp. The trauma. Just… normal.”

There was a pause. Then Theo said, quietly, “I was never going to be normal, Peter. That was the lie.”

Peter turned, watching him. “That’s a pretty heavy truth to carry around.”

Theo exhaled sharply, not quite a laugh. “You learn to keep moving.”

Peter hesitated. “You don’t have to do this alone, you know.”

Another pause. Theo’s eyes flicked toward him for a heartbeat. “I do.”

⸻

— Oscorp Tower – Norman Osborn’s Private Office —

The security systems were quiet tonight—almost too quiet. Gwen stood beside Mary Jane in the elevator, heart thudding, fingers flexing inside her gloves. The ride to the top was slow, smooth, and far too elegant for what they were about to do.

“I still can’t believe you know the override codes,” Gwen murmured under her breath, glancing sideways.

MJ’s eyes stayed on the numbers above the elevator door. “I watched Norman type them in a hundred times. He never thought I’d look. Or remember.”

There was something cold about her tone—controlled. Gwen didn’t press.

The elevator dinged softly. The doors opened to a dimly lit hallway lined with glass, steel, and curated opulence. A minimalist office lay ahead, tucked behind soundproofed doors and an intimidating biometric scanner.

“You’re sure this is safe?” Gwen whispered, already reaching for her tools.

Mary Jane stepped forward and placed her palm against the scanner. “Not at all,” she replied. The light blinked green. The doors hissed open.

Inside, the air was still and faintly perfumed—an artificial calm. The walls were lined with shelves of obsolete patents and family photos carefully arranged to suggest sentimentality. It all felt fake. Staged. But the computer in the far corner—sleek, black, and silent—was very real.

Gwen moved fast. “I’ll start on the terminal. You watch the hallway.”

MJ hovered by the door for a moment, then drifted to the far wall, her gaze drawn to a photo of her younger self standing beside Norman. He looked proud. She looked… unaware.

“You okay?” Gwen asked, not looking up from the screen.

MJ didn’t answer immediately. “I hate this place,” she said quietly.

A soft beep interrupted the silence. Gwen smirked. “Got in.”

She pulled up a cluster of hidden folders—encrypted, deeply buried. Each one was marked with red tags, OSCORE internal use only.

PROJECT O
GOBLIN-GREEN
BLOODLINES-EXPERIMENTAL
ORPHAN-EXTRACTION

“Jesus,” Gwen breathed. “What the hell are you hiding, Norman…”

She clicked on Project O. A loading bar crawled across the screen as a video began to buffer.

MJ turned from the wall, stepping behind her. The screen filled with security footage—sterile lab halls, flickering timestamps. Then—

The hidden Oscorp lab. New Jersey. Live feed.

Two figures on screen: Peter and Theo.

Gwen froze. “Is that—?”

MJ stepped closer. “That’s them,” she said, too fast.

Gwen turned to her. “You knew it was him.”

MJ didn’t meet her eyes. “I had a suspicion. Not… not like this.”

On screen, Norman appeared in the doorway, flanked by guards.

Gwen’s breath caught as she saw Peter take a step forward, shielding Theo without thinking. “He doesn’t even know yet,” she whispered.

Then Norman said it.

“Hello, Harry.”

The word cut through the room like a blade. Gwen’s hands tightened on the edge of the desk.

MJ flinched. She didn’t mean to—but she did.

Gwen looked at her again. “You knew it was Harry.”

MJ said nothing.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Gwen asked. Her voice wasn’t angry—it was sad. Hurt.

MJ opened her mouth, but the alarms in the building started to wail—low, deep, and growing louder.

“They must’ve triggered a breach,” Gwen said quickly, yanking a portable drive from her bag and jamming it into the terminal. “I’m pulling everything I can.”

MJ backed away from the desk. “We need to go. Now.”

The data transfer bar glowed red. 86%… 92%… Complete.

Gwen yanked the drive out and snapped the laptop shut. The lights overhead flickered—security was rerouting power.

They bolted out the door just before the emergency lockdown sealed the floor behind them.

— Oscorp Black Site – New Jersey – Late Night —

The lab was colder than expected. Not just in temperature, but in presence—sterile, white-lit, humming with quiet menace. The kind of place built not to be remembered.

Peter crouched behind a row of filing cabinets, his suit dimmed to stealth mode. Theo was beside him, barely breathing, scanning the room like he’d memorized every shadow.

On the wall, a series of monitors flickered to life.

HYDRA.

The word pulsed across the screens in dull red.

Peter swore under his breath. “We need to get what we can and get out. You good?”

Theo hesitated. Just for a second. But Peter caught it—the war behind his eyes, the weight in his chest. Then: “Yeah. I’m good.”

They moved fast. Peter plugged into the system, fingers flying across the interface. Files began dumping onto the drive Gwen gave them. Theo kept watch, his gaze locked on the corridor behind them.

Then a soft beep. Not from Peter’s system—from the wall.

Security breach alert.

Peter froze. “Please tell me that wasn’t—”

The lab door hissed open.

Norman Osborn stepped inside, flanked by two armed guards. His voice cut through the air like glass.

“Hello, Harry.”

Peter’s breath caught. What?

Theo didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Norman stepped forward, smile cold and slow. “Or should I say… Theo Harrison?”

Peter looked at Theo—Harry?—and the pieces started falling into place. The way he moved. The bitterness. The knowing.

Harry’s voice was razor-edged. “I’m not your puppet anymore.”

Norman’s smile curled. “Oh, child. You’ll never escape me. No matter what name you wear. You’ll always be my creation. My dirtiest secret.”

Peter’s eyes widened. “Harry?” His voice was barely a whisper.

Norman kept going. “You think you’re free? Just because Natasha Romanoff decided you were worth saving? Because someone gave you a fake name and a new passport?”

Harry’s fists clenched. “You took me. Sold me. Told the world I died. You don’t get to talk about who saved me.”

“Harriet,” Norman said, his voice low and cutting, thick with mockery. “I gave you a second chance. You wanted to be a man? Be useful? Look at you now—nearly convincing.”

The air snapped.

Harry launched.

It wasn’t anger—it was surgical. He moved like a weapon reborn, trained and honed. Two guards down in under five seconds. Peter barely had time to react before Norman barked something unintelligible and ducked behind a console.

Peter joined the fight, webbing one of the remaining guards to the wall, his mind spinning. Harry was alive. Harry had been here this whole time. And Norman had known. Had done this.

A green-glass vial caught the light from the counter. Harry snatched it—Goblin serum. The original formula.

Peter covered him with a burst of webbing as Norman lunged. “Go!”

Harry didn’t need telling twice. He disappeared into the shadows, footsteps silent.

Peter paused only to smash the remaining vials before swinging after him, heart in his throat.

Behind them, Norman roared.

“You’ll regret this, Harry!”

And then the lab erupted in red alarms.

⸻

— On a rooftop, late at night —

The city never slept, but this rooftop felt like it had been holding its breath.

Peter sat on the edge, his mask off, curls damp with sweat and adrenaline. His heart still hadn’t slowed down since Jersey. Not from the fighting—but from the truth.

Footsteps behind him. Controlled. Soft.

Theo—Harry—stood just beyond the light of the rooftop’s edge, like he didn’t quite belong in it. The moon caught the edge of his jaw, but his eyes stayed hidden beneath his hood. He didn’t move closer.

Peter didn’t look at him right away. The silence stretched.

“You… look different,” Peter said softly, his voice quiet against the wind.

Harry didn’t move. “I am different.”

Peter finally turned to face him. “You lied to me.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “You think I wanted to?”

“You let me think you were dead. For years.”

“I was dead,” Harry said flatly. “The person you knew? He was gone the second Norman sold me to Dreykov. The second I stopped being Harry Osborn and started being a ghost.”

Peter flinched. “You think that means you didn’t matter anymore? That we all just… forgot you?”

“I wanted you to forget,” Harry snapped. “Because remembering hurt more. Because coming back as me… would’ve made you look at me like this.”

Peter stood up, his hands shaking. “I’m not angry because of who you are. I’m angry because I thought I lost you. And you let me grieve someone who wasn’t gone.”

Harry’s voice cracked. “You think I chose this? Every day in that place, they carved pieces out of me until I didn’t know what was left. I became what they wanted—until I couldn’t tell if I was pretending anymore.”

Peter stepped closer. “You’re not them, Harry. You’re not Dreykov. You’re not Norman.”

“I’m not sure I’m me, either.”

Peter hesitated. “I see you. Even now. Especially now.”

Harry looked away, eyes wet. “You don’t know what they made me do.”

Peter reached out, fingers brushing his shoulder. “Then show me. Let me carry it with you.”

Harry’s breath hitched, a silent crack in his armor. “You don’t have to do that.”

Peter’s hand didn’t move. “I want to.”

Another beat of silence. The wind passed between them like a breath being held.

And then Harry whispered, “I missed you.”

Peter closed his eyes. “I missed you every day.”

They stood like that for a long moment, the past circling like ghosts around them—but for the first time in years, neither of them was alone.

Peter turned slightly, then slowly extended his hand. “Is this okay?”

Harry looked at it, then nodded once—and placed his hand in Peter’s.

It was rough. Calloused. Fingers worn down by survival. But it felt like Harry. Solid. Present. Real.

Peter squeezed gently. “You’re still here,” he whispered.

Harry didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

They stared out into the night, silence spreading over them.

And for the first time in years, it didn’t feel like mourning.
It felt like beginning again.

Chapter 13: Have We Ever Really Buried Him?

— The Safehouse – Early Morning —

The air was heavy with quiet. Peter closed the door behind them, the soft click sounding far louder than it should’ve.

Harry didn’t say a word. He sank onto the edge of the couch, the shadows under his eyes darker than ever. He kept his hood up, shoulders curled slightly inward, like he hadn’t unclenched since Jersey.

Gwen stood by the desk, her laptop humming softly as it decrypted the drive. MJ was near the window, arms folded, eyes trained on the skyline but not really seeing it. The safehouse was quiet—secure, yes, but claustrophobic with the weight of everything unspoken.

Peter rubbed a hand down his face. “We got the files. Barely.”

No one answered. For a moment, the only sound in the room was the fan spinning inside the laptop.

Then Gwen looked up. Her gaze passed over Peter—landed on MJ.

“I saw the way you looked at the footage,” she said quietly. “When Norman called him Harry.”

MJ didn’t turn. “I didn’t know. Not for sure.”

Gwen stayed still. “But you had a feeling.”

MJ exhaled slowly, like the breath had been stuck for days. “I found old photos once. In Norman’s drawer. A kid—blue eyes, auburn hair, same jawline. Looked like Theo.”

“Harry,” Peter said softly, almost automatically.

MJ nodded, just once. “I knew Norman had a child before me. A son, a daughter—no one ever gave me a straight answer. But the resemblance was there. And the way Norman talks about Theo… it always felt personal. Like shame.”

She finally turned to face them. “But I never met Harry. I thought he was dead.”

Gwen’s voice was soft. “So did we.”

Another beat passed. The weight in the room didn’t lift, but it shifted—shared, now. Not blame, just… complexity.

Harry looked up, eyes shadowed. “You don’t have to tiptoe around me. I know what I am to all of you. A name you thought was buried.”

Peter sat down beside him. “You’re not a name. You’re a person. You’re here.”

Harry didn’t reply. But he didn’t pull away either.

Gwen stepped over to MJ, brushing her shoulder gently. “Thanks for not saying anything until he was ready. Even if it hurt.”

MJ blinked hard. “I wasn’t trying to protect Norman. I was trying to protect someone I didn’t even know I missed.”

The silence held for a beat longer before Peter shifted, pulling his bag into his lap. He unzipped it slowly and took out a small metal case. With a soft click, it opened.

Inside, nestled in black foam, was a vial glowing faintly green.

The light shimmered against the walls, a soft, eerie hue that made the entire room seem smaller.

“We didn’t just get the files,” Peter said. His voice was low, tight. “We got a vial too. Goblin serum. One of the originals.”

Gwen stepped closer, frowning. “That’s evidence. Proof Norman’s still running enhancement trials.”

Harry didn’t look at the vial. His voice came out low and hollow. “Proof he’s just like them. Building an army for Hydra. A new generation of soldiers—stronger. Easier to control.”

The room went still.

Peter closed the case and set it aside. “Not this time.”

Gwen’s voice was steady. “We use this. We use all of this. We bring him down.”

No one said it—but the lines had been drawn. Whatever came next, there was no walking it back.

———

The safehouse was quiet but full of motion. The green vial sat in the center of the table now, encased in a reinforced sample container Peter had pulled from one of Stark’s old kits. It hummed faintly under the glass—more chemical than alive, but still… wrong.

Gwen sat at her laptop, fingers tapping rapidly across the keyboard. Lines of code crawled up the screen as the stolen Oscorp drive finished decrypting.

Peter leaned over her shoulder. “How’s it looking?”

“Like it doesn’t want to be opened,” Gwen muttered. “Norman’s encryption is six layers deep and paranoid. I think this thing’s rewriting itself in real time.”

MJ hovered nearby, watching Gwen with folded arms and furrowed brows. Harry lingered in the background, saying nothing, but his eyes never left the glowing container on the table.

Peter glanced at it, then back to Gwen. “Let’s start with what’s marked ‘Project O.’”

Gwen typed in a bypass code. The folder blinked once—then opened.

Dozens of files unfolded: personnel logs, lab reports, autopsy photos, transfer protocols. At the center of it all: O-RPH4N.

Peter read the document header aloud. “‘Red Room Cross-Application: O-RPH4N Protocol. Initiative approved for trial under Dreykov-Oscorp Liaison Agreement. Subject viability confirmed.’” He paused. “Harry…”

Harry didn’t move.

Gwen clicked into the medical files. A profile loaded. The biometric readout was unmistakable.

Listed as deceased:
Harriet Osborn.

Beneath it — Codename: Orphan.

Harry’s voice was low, bitter—almost amused
“They kept my deadname. Of course they did.”

A pause.

“Guess it fits—project’s built on ghosts, right?”

Peter’s hands tightened. “Norman knew. He signed this. ‘Authorized: N. Osborn.’ He didn’t just sell you out—he partnered with them.”

“I was a bargaining chip,” Harry said. “Collateral for their next super soldier.”

MJ stepped forward, brow furrowed. “Wait—look at this.” She pointed to a side file, tagged with a recent date.

Subject viability flagged: failed clone modeling. Next generation recombinant tests authorized with modified Goblin base serum. Green Vial One logged, extracted from core strain. Final test protocol approved—manual delivery.

Gwen’s voice dropped. “He wasn’t just running enhancements. He was experimenting. Perfecting. The Goblin formula’s been modified.”

Peter’s head snapped toward the container. “You think the one we took is it?”

Gwen nodded grimly. “The last vial. I think he meant to test it. Or already did.”

From behind them, Harry stepped forward and stared at the file for a long time.

Then, coldly: “He wanted to replace me.”

Peter looked at him. “He wanted to control you.”

And for a moment, the safehouse felt smaller.

Then something flickered on Gwen’s laptop. A strange line of code. She frowned.

“What’s that?” Peter asked.

“Don’t know,” Gwen said. “Just… showed up.”

The screen blinked. A string of characters scrolled briefly across the screen—too fast to catch. Then gone.

Peter straightened. “That wasn’t normal, right?”

Gwen slowly shook her head. “No. That wasn’t me.”

Harry turned from the screen. “We’re not alone in here.”

————

— Oscorp Tower – Norman’s Private Surveillance Suite —

The room was dark except for the glow of screens. Dozens of them. Norman stood in the center, unmoving, hands clasped behind his back.

Lines of code scrolled across the center monitor. A blinking marker traced a path through Oscorp’s stolen files—recent access flagged in red.

“Unauthorized extraction detected.”
“IP masked. Safehouse signature approximated.”

Norman smiled.

It wasn’t a grin. It was surgical. Cold. The kind of smile that didn’t reach his eyes because it didn’t have to.

He leaned forward, fingers dancing across a hidden keyboard beneath the glass surface.

“You were always too clever, Gwen,” he murmured. “But not clever enough.”

Another file pulsed to life on a separate screen—footage of MJ and Gwen in his office. The audio was choppy, but the visuals were crisp. MJ standing too still. Gwen downloading something fast.

“And you, Jane…”
His smile thinned. “Little traitor.”

He tapped another key.

“Activate Hydra Recon Protocol – Code: Tapeworm.”
“Location ping: Safehouse – Tier 2 Assets deployed.”

The screen flickered.

Then it showed a black van pulling out of an Oscorp underground garage.

————

— Safehouse Fire Escape – early morning —

The safehouse had quieted, but not in a peaceful way. It was the silence of exhaustion, of walls closing in. The kind of quiet that hummed beneath your skin.

Harry stood by the open window, unmoving. Gwen glanced toward him from the table, then looked at Peter. Said nothing.

Peter walked over, nudged the window open wider. Cold air slipped in.
“C’mon,” he said gently. “Let’s sit for a minute.”

Harry didn’t respond, but he didn’t resist either. He climbed out first. Peter followed.

⸻

They sat on the rusted metal steps, side by side, feet resting on the railing. The sky above was soft, dusky blue. The city was still—a rare, breathless kind of quiet.

Harry sat curled in on himself, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight.

Peter waited, silent.

“I don’t know who I am,” Harry said finally, his voice brittle. “I don’t know what parts are me and what parts are… what they made. I was built and broken and put back together so many times I stopped counting.”

He let out a short breath. “I feel like I was erased. Like I was rewritten so many times I forgot who the original was.”

Peter swallowed. “I get it.”

Harry glanced at him.

Peter didn’t look away. “After I lost you, I thought that was the worst thing I’d ever feel. But it wasn’t. Losing Tony? That broke something I didn’t even know was still whole. Then May… and after that, it just kept going. Ned. MJ. Everyone forgetting who I was.”

His voice dipped, almost too soft to hear.
“I had to make the world forget me. And sometimes I think I disappeared with them.”

He looked at Harry, more certain now. “But you’re not just what they turned you into. You’re what you survived. And you’re still here. That counts for something.”

Harry stared forward. His throat worked silently for a second before he said, “You always were the best of us.”

Peter gave a tired, crooked smile. “You always said that because you sucked at chemistry.”

And it got the smallest laugh. A breath. A blink of relief in the storm.

Then Peter reached over gently, resting his hand over Harry’s.

Harry didn’t pull away.

And then Peter said it. Just quiet enough. Like it was always supposed to be there.

“Come on, Har, let’s go for a walk”

The name knocked something loose. Not in a painful way—but in the way something buried starts to surface. Something real.

Harry’s fingers curled around Peter’s. Not tight. Just enough.

“I’m not who I was,” he whispered.

Peter nodded, voice low. “Neither am I.”

⸻

They walked slowly, shoulders brushing. No plan. No gear. No mission.

Just two people, hurt and healing, making space for the version of themselves that hadn’t been allowed to exist before.

They didn’t speak again.

They didn’t have to.

Chapter 14: The Virus in the System

Summary:

Harry and Pete going for a walk. Hurt but comfort. Norman taking the drugs himself. Oh did I mention that Curt Connors is am Ally? Gwen and Mary Jane have been better, though.

Notes:

CW/CN: Mention of transphobia.

— Quiet Park – Just After Sunrise —

The park was quiet—early morning light filtering through bare branches, dew still clinging to the grass. The world hadn’t woken up fully yet, and that felt right. This wasn’t a moment meant for noise.

Peter and Harry walked without speaking. The silence between them wasn’t awkward—it was necessary. Like words might crack something they were both still trying to hold together.

They found a bench tucked near the edge of the path. Peter sat first, hoodie pulled tight around him, shoulders hunched like the cold was seeping into more than just his skin. Harry hovered for a moment, hands still buried in his pockets, gaze fixed on the ground.

Peter looked up at him. “You okay to sit?”

Harry gave the smallest nod and eased down onto the bench, not close—but not far either.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Peter said, quietly, “I never thought we’d be here again. You and me. Not like this.”

Harry exhaled through his nose. “I never thought I’d be seen again. Not as me.”

Peter glanced over. “You are, though. I see you.”

Harry didn’t answer right away. He stared out across the empty lawn, fingers twitching in his sleeves.

“I used to think,” he said slowly, “that if I just became what they wanted… maybe I’d earn it. His approval. His love. If I was sharp enough, perfect enough, deadly enough—I’d stop being a disappointment. Maybe I’d stop being his secret.”

Peter’s chest ached. “Norman doesn’t get to define who you are anymore.”

Harry’s voice cracked. “He already did.”

Peter leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “When I lost you, I thought that was the worst thing I’d ever feel. But it wasn’t. Losing Tony? That broke something I didn’t even know was still whole. Then May… and after that, it just kept going. Ned. MJ. Everyone forgetting who I was.”

His voice dipped, almost too soft to hear.
“I had to make the world forget me. And sometimes I think I disappeared with them.”

He looked at Harry, more certain now. “But you’re not just what they turned you into. You’re what you survived. And you’re still here. That counts for something.”

Harry stared forward. His throat worked silently for a second before he said, “You always were the best of us.”

Peter gave a tired, crooked smile. “You always said that because you sucked at chemistry.”

And it got the smallest laugh. A breath. A blink of relief in the storm.

Then Peter reached out—slowly, like he wasn’t sure he’d be allowed—and placed a hand gently over Harry’s.

Harry didn’t pull away.

Peter hesitated, then asked, voice low and uncertain, “How do you remember me? After Strange. After… everything. The spell.”

Harry looked down. A pause.

Then, softly: “It didn’t work on me.”

Peter blinked. “Why?”

“My mind was already tampered with. The Red Room wiped me, rewrote me, over and over. Then the Red Dust broke it all down. I had to learn to resist it. Rebuild from inside. I guess… whatever Strange’s magic did—it couldn’t overwrite what was already fractured.”

He let out a breath. “I was immune. I remembered everything.”

Peter’s voice caught. “You remembered me?”

Harry nodded. “You were the only thing that still felt real.”

Peter squeezed his hand gently. “You didn’t have to go through that alone.”

Harry’s voice barely held. “I didn’t think I had a choice.”

Peter looked at him fully. “You do now.”

Harry’s fingers curled tighter around his.

“I don’t know what comes next,” he whispered.

Peter nodded. “Neither do I. But we can figure it out. Together.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty.

It was full of everything they couldn’t say yet. Everything they might.

Harry looked at Peter again. No mask. No weapon. No name to hide behind.

Just Harry.

And Peter.

And a fragile, flickering chance.

—————
The city had started to wake, but softly. Just the hush of tires on wet asphalt, the rustle of birds, the distant hum of a train.

Harry’s phone buzzed. Not a number—just a familiar encryption pattern flashing across the screen.

He stopped walking.

Peter slowed beside him. “Something wrong?”

Harry didn’t answer. He swiped to accept the call and brought the phone to his ear. “Говори.” Speak.

Peter blinked at the sudden shift in tone—quick, clipped, Russian. Harry’s whole body language had changed. Quieter. Sharper.

The voice on the other end was sharp and unimpressed—fast, familiar, and laced with Russian bite.

“Ты, наконец, решил перестать притворяться мертвым, маленький засранец?”
You finally decided to stop pretending you’re dead, little shit?

Harry rolled his eyes—but there was something fond behind it. “Привет, сестра.”
Hey, sister.

“Don’t ‘sister’ me. I ought to break your nose just to check you’re still flesh and not hologram.”

Peter raised an eyebrow, watching Harry mutter something back in Russian, the rhythm of it sharp but strangely warm. He kept a polite distance, even as curiosity buzzed under his skin.

“Hydra’s been muttering your name again,” Yelena said, switching to English with that familiar dry edge. “Norman Osborn’s name came up. So did yours. I thought you said you were keeping your head down.”

“I was,” Harry said, glancing toward Peter. “It got complicated.”

“With you it’s always complicated. You attract trouble like I attract dramatic coats.”

Harry smirked. “You love the coats.”

“That’s not the point.”

The line quieted for a second. Then came softer words. Familiar ones.

“Ты в порядке?”
Are you okay?
“Ты в безопасности, Гарри?”
Are you safe, Harry?

Harry hesitated. His voice, when it came, was quieter. “Безопасность — это относительное понятие.”
Safe is… a relative concept.

Yelena exhaled through her nose. “Хреново.”
A classic, weary Russian curse. No real translation. Just… ugh.

“You’re still a little idiot, but fine. I’ll accept ‘not currently bleeding out’ as progress.”

Harry huffed out the ghost of a laugh. “Thanks.”

“And drink water, да? You always forget.”

“You’re the worst.”

“I’m the best you’ve got.”

Then her voice dropped again, quieter, steel beneath the velvet.

“If things go bad—really bad—you call me. We burn the whole thing down. Like before.”

Harry nodded even though she couldn’t see it. “Спасибо, Лена.”
Thanks, Lena.

“Anytime, little brother. But next time? Maybe try not making global terrorist networks chase your ass, да?”

She hung up.

Harry stood still for a second, letting the silence settle over them.

Peter gave him a look. “That your boss?”

Harry shook his head. “No. That’s my sister. Yelena.”

Peter blinked. “Wait—Yelena Belova? Natasha’s sister?”

Harry nodded, voice quieter. “Yeah. She looked out for me in the Red Room. Still does.”

Peter didn’t say anything for a moment. He fell back into step beside him.

He’d seen Yelena once—briefly, when the world still made sense. She was quick, sharp, no-nonsense with a bite. And now she was Harry’s family?

It struck him again: Harry wasn’t just the boy he used to know. He was also a ghost of the Red Room. A weapon with memories. A brother to someone who once walked beside Natasha Romanoff.

And yet—somehow—Peter still recognized him.

That part? That mattered more than all the rest.

They kept walking in silence.

And for just a moment, Harry’s shoulders weren’t quite so tense.

— Oscorp Sub-Level – Restricted Lab —

The lab hummed with precision. Stainless steel. Cold light. Rows of dark monitors waiting to blink to life. It looked like a laboratory—but felt like a war room.

Dr. Curt Connors stood still, his eyes locked on the final vial suspended in a sterile injector unit. A sickly green glow pulsed faintly through the glass.

“This is a mistake, Norman.”

Norman Osborn stood at the injector table, calm, composed, sleeves rolled up with surgical intent. “There’s no mistake. Only evolution.”

Connors stepped forward. “This serum—it’s based on what was used on your son. You’re building on a prototype that was already unstable.”

Norman’s smile twisted. “You mean what was used on my daughter.”

Connors didn’t blink, but something flickered behind his eyes. “Your son, Norman,” he said evenly, gaze unreadable.

Norman gave a dismissive wave. “Please. Harriet was already unstable. Pretending to be something else. No wonder the prototype wasn’t viable—built on a confused host.”

A beat passed.

Connors didn’t speak, but his hand hovered near the emergency override—just for a second.

Norman noticed.

“But you won’t stop this,” he said, calm as ice. “Because part of you wants to see what happens when it finally works.”

“You fused Red Dust protocols into this,” Connors said. “Mind control tech with irreversible mutation. You’re not just enhancing yourself. You’re claiming control.”

Norman held up the injector. “The aerosols are for the masses. Hydra’s grunts. Temporary enhancements—easily replaced. But this…”
He plunged the needle into his arm.
“…this is for me.”

Connors stepped forward instinctively. “Norman—”

Norman dropped the injector. His body convulsed—back arching, muscles spasming beneath the skin like something beneath the surface was waking up.

Connors stumbled back as monitors flared:

NEURAL DOMINANCE: ACTIVE
CELLULAR BINDING: COMPLETE
CORTICAL CONTROL SYNCED
HOST ACCEPTANCE: 100%

Norman hit the floor—only to rise again, breath shallow, glowing faintly beneath his skin. Bones realigned. His spine twisted unnaturally. His eyes pulsed green.

“You’re not Norman anymore,” Connors whispered.

The thing that had been Norman smiled.

“No,” he said softly. “I’m what comes next.”

Across the room, a monitor blinked:
TRANSFER COMPLETE: NODE A — REPLICATION INTEGRITY STABLE.

Connors stiffened. “What did you just do?”

Norman’s grin widened. “The virus did its job. The safehouse is flagged. The girls are already tagged. The moment they accessed Oscorp’s system, they gave me everything I needed.”

“You’re turning this into a manhunt.”

Norman’s voice dropped into a whisper. “I’m turning it into a cleansing.”

He turned toward the comms console and pressed a button.

“Unit-7. Garage level. Go.”

A static click.

“Acknowledged. Awaiting signal.”

Norman opened a sealed chrome case. Inside: three aerosol canisters, glowing faintly green.

He locked one into a deployment rig and whispered, “You’ve breathed it in already. You just don’t know it yet.”

His eyes returned to the screen as a red marker blinked—SAFEHOUSE LOCATION CONFIRMED.

“Let’s see what the pack does… once the alpha howls.”

Connors flinched. “You’re going to use them to—”

He never finished.

Norman turned to him slowly. Calm. Precise.
A soft hiss of aerosol filled the air—unseen, silent.

Connors blinked. Then swayed.

Norman stepped closer, voice low.

“Welcome to the pack.”

That was the last thing Dr. Connors heard before the world went dark.

———————-

The streets were quieter this far out—industrial and forgettable. Warehouses and old garages stretched into the dark, lit only by flickering bulbs and distant sirens. Peter and Harry walked side by side in silence, the kind that had softened from tension into something almost companionable.

They’d needed the walk. Maybe they’d needed each other more.

Peter pulled out his phone to check the time. The battery was low.

Then it lit up.

A single notification.

Gwen Stacy:

Hydra’s here they—

Seven words. The rest of the message never arrived.

Peter stopped dead in his tracks.

Harry looked over. “What is it?”

Peter turned the screen toward him.

Harry read it. Blinked. “How long ago?”

Peter checked. The timestamp hit him like a punch in the chest.

34 minutes ago.

His throat went dry. “We have to move.”

Harry didn’t even nod—he was already running.

They cut through alleys and jumped fences, every second heavier than the last. But when they reached the block where the safehouse had been tucked away—

—it was over.

The front door hung open, just slightly.

No lights. No movement.

Inside, everything was silent.

Notes:

What do you think? Let me know. I’m just can’t stop writing it. Thank you for the kudos I received, keeps me going. I didn’t think anyone would actually read that. Even if it was just one person, so thank you all :)

Chapter 15: Always Remembered, Never Forgotten

— Safehouse – Earlier That Night —

The safehouse had gone quiet.

Not peaceful. Not calm. Just quiet.

The kind of quiet that comes before something breaks.

Gwen sat cross-legged on the floor, laptop open, fingers dancing over the keyboard as she scanned through the Oscorp data they’d stolen. MJ paced behind her, chewing the inside of her cheek, phone in hand.

“There’s something weird in the encryption logs,” Gwen said, frowning. “Like… something’s replicating.”

MJ stopped pacing. “Replicating?”

“Yeah, like it’s copying itself. Leaving breadcrumbs—no, collecting them.”

MJ crossed the room and leaned over her shoulder. “You’re saying it’s tracking?”

Gwen didn’t answer immediately.

She just looked up at her. “I think it’s already been tracking us. Since we plugged in.”

MJ’s phone buzzed. She glanced at it—nothing but static across her screen for a heartbeat too long.

A soft beep echoed from the corner of the room.

Gwen froze.

“What was that?” MJ asked.

Gwen’s fingers flew. “I don’t know. I—I’m trying to shut it down—”

The screen flashed. A single line of green code scrolled across the display.

TRANSFER COMPLETE: NODE A — REPLICATION INTEGRITY STABLE

Mary Jane’s voice dropped. “That’s the same line from Oscorp’s core system, isn’t it?”

Before Gwen could answer, the lights flickered. Once. Twice.

Then died.

Complete blackness.

The girls barely had time to exchange a look before the first boot hit the door.

It didn’t swing open—it exploded inward, splinters flying.

Men in black tactical gear flooded in—silent, efficient. Too efficient.

Mary Jane grabbed a chair. Gwen dove for the phone.

“Peter—” she whispered, hands shaking as she typed.

Hydra’s here they—

The screen was ripped from her hands mid-sentence.

The last thing Gwen saw before something struck the side of her head was MJ trying to fight back—her voice lost in a roar of orders shouted in a language that didn’t sound fully human anymore.

Then—dark.

——————

— Safehouse – Present —

The front door was ajar.

That was the first sign.

Peter stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, heart hammering. Harry caught up beside him, still breathing hard from the sprint, eyes already narrowing as he scanned the building.

“They wouldn’t have left it open,” Peter said, voice low.

“No,” Harry murmured. “They wouldn’t have.”

They approached slowly, every step echoing against the concrete.

The moment Peter touched the door, he knew.

It swung inward with a soft creak, revealing a hallway too dark, too still.

“Gwen?” Peter called.

Nothing.

“Mary Jane?”

Harry moved ahead of him, silent and sharp, checking corners, glancing at the floor. Broken splinters from the frame. A cracked lamp. A laptop still open—its screen shattered.

Peter stepped in behind him, hands curled into fists. His eyes caught on a mug still full of tea, long cold. A phone charger dangling from the wall.

He moved deeper into the space. The room was torn apart—but not looted. Not chaotic. Surgical.

“They were taken,” Harry said flatly. “Quick. Controlled. No mess. Hydra.”

Peter didn’t speak. He just pulled out his phone.

The message from Gwen was still there.

Hydra’s here they—

He stared at it for a long time.

Then he sat down. Just like that. Like his legs couldn’t hold him anymore.

Harry didn’t say anything. Just stood there with his jaw tight, chest rising and falling too fast.

“They were here,” Peter said quietly. “And we weren’t.”

Harry crouched down beside him, voice soft but steady. “We’re going to find them.”

Peter nodded once. “But we can’t do it alone.”

Their eyes met.

Harry took a breath. “I know who to call.”

————

Harry stood by the kitchen window, phone pressed to his ear, staring out into the dark. Peter paced behind him, chewing at the skin on his thumb, still reading and re-reading Gwen’s unfinished message like it might somehow finish itself.

The call connected.

A pause. Then a voice, sharp and unmistakable, laced with dry Russian sarcasm:

“Ты жив. Я в шоке.”
You’re alive. I’m shocked.

Harry exhaled, the tension in his chest finally giving way. “Yelena.”

“You only call when you’ve done something stupid.”

“I didn’t do this.”

“But you’re going to fix it, да?”
Right?

Peter paused mid-step, turning toward him.

“I need help,” Harry said, voice lower. “They’ve taken two people. Hydra. Possibly under Goblin influence.”

“Osborn?” Yelena’s voice sharpened instantly.

“Yes. He perfected it. Injected the Alpha strain into himself.”

A pause.

“Дерьмо,” she muttered. Shit. “Send me coordinates. I’ll be there in twenty hours.”

“I might need more than just you,” Harry added.

“Then let’s wake the dead.”

Another voice joined the call—deep, gruff, somehow paternal:

“We’re already awake, kid,” Alexei said. “Whatever it is, you’re not alone. I told you. Family keeps together.”

Then Melina’s voice filtered through, calm and precise:

“Harry. This place is compromised now. You need to leave. Immediately.”

Harry tensed. “I finally slept here,” he said bitterly. “Like a human. Like I wasn’t something built for someone else’s war. And now you want me to run again?”

“Да, малыш,” Melina said softly. Yes, little one. “Because you’ve learned to rest. That means you’ve survived. Now survive again.”

Peter stepped closer. “You can come to my apartment. It’s off-grid. Safe. No one’s been there in months.”

“Temporary shelter. Enough to regroup,” Yelena added. “We move smarter. Hit harder.”

“And I’ll bring snacks,” Alexei offered.

“No you won’t,” Melina deadpanned.

Yelena cut back in, firm and steady:

“We’ll see you soon. We don’t let our own disappear again.”

The call ended.

Harry didn’t move for a second. He looked around the room—the mug Gwen left half-drunk, MJ’s jacket still hanging on the back of a chair. It had started to feel like something close to home.

He blinked once, then turned to Peter.

“Let’s go.”

 

— Peter’s Apartment – Late Night —

Peter unlocked the door, stepping into the apartment like muscle memory. He’d been back plenty of times—but it hadn’t felt like home in a while. Not since the spell. Not since May. Not since the world forgot him.

The lights flickered to life with a weak hum. The space was small, clean but sparse. A few signs of life: a folded hoodie over a chair, a coffee mug left out on the counter, a photo face-down near the fridge. Just enough to feel lived in. Not enough to feel alive.

Harry followed him in, quiet.

Peter gestured with a tired smile. “Welcome to my kingdom. Dust, coffee, and a truly tragic lack of furniture.”

Harry gave a small snort but didn’t say anything.

Peter locked the door behind them. Then bolted it.

They stood there a beat too long.

Peter scratched at the back of his neck. “There’s, um… just one bed.”

Harry shrugged. “I don’t care.”

“I can take the couch,” Peter offered. “If you need space.”

“I don’t want space,” Harry said. “Not tonight.”

There was no edge in it. Just honesty.

Peter nodded and led the way into the bedroom. The bed was small—barely a full. The sheets were mismatched. The light above the dresser flickered once and then settled.

Peter grabbed an old T-shirt and a pair of sweats from the dresser and tossed them toward Harry.

“They might be a little big.”

Harry caught them. “Better than hospital gowns.”

They changed in silence, backs turned, the kind of wordless coordination that comes from knowing someone too well. When Peter turned around, Harry was already sitting on the edge of the bed. Hoodie off. Shoulders bare. His top surgery scars caught the light and faded into shadow again.

Peter paused. Just a moment. Then sat beside him.

The mattress dipped slightly beneath them.

“I used to imagine a place like this,” Harry said after a moment. “When I was in the Red Room. Small apartment. Bad lighting. A door I could lock. It was dumb. But it meant something.”

Peter looked over at him. “It’s not dumb.”

Harry stared straight ahead. “It’s gone now. The safehouse. Gwen. Mary Jane. All of it.”

“You still have this.”

Harry didn’t answer.

Peter lay back slowly, arms behind his head. “You know what I used to imagine? Someone remembering me.”

Harry turned to look at him.

Peter didn’t meet his gaze, just stared at the ceiling. “After the spell, it felt like I was fading. And then you showed up. Still knowing who I was.”

Harry’s voice was soft but certain.

“I remembered because I needed to. Because losing the memory of you would’ve broken me beyond fixing.”
He hesitated, then added, “It may sound strange, but I used to think about us. As children. Before everything changed. It was my inner safe space when the outside world was too smothering to bear.”

Peter’s breath caught, but Harry wasn’t finished.

“You deserve to be remembered. Spider-Man might be a hero to most, but people only ever see the mask. They forget there’s someone underneath it—someone real. People live with expectations and prejudice and forget that, in the end, people are just… people. And Peter Parker? You’re one of the best of them.”

Peter turned toward him, finally. Their eyes met.

And Peter reached out—slow, tentative—and took Harry’s hand.

“Is this okay?”

Harry nodded.

Peter squeezed. It was a small thing. But it was the first thing that didn’t feel like surviving.

“Come here, Har,” Peter said, opening his arms slightly—just enough to offer, not assume.

Harry hesitated.
The gesture itself was foreign—affection without expectation, without danger.
He wasn’t used to being wanted without being needed, touched without being controlled.

“You’re safe with me, Harry,” Peter murmured.

Slowly, Harry moved toward him and tucked himself into Peter’s warmth. He laid his head on Peter’s chest, settling into the steady rise and fall of breath, the quiet rhythm of something that felt real.

Peter rested his hand between Harry’s shoulder blades, the other tracing soft circles along his arm.

Silence bloomed between them.

Then Harry looked up, voice small. “Why do you care so much, Peter?”

Peter blinked. “What?”

“I mean—I’m supposed to be dead. And before that, you thought I ditched you. Boarding school in Europe, remember?”

Peter exhaled, steady. “Yeah.”

Harry gave a humorless little smile. “I thought the same. That I’d been sent off somewhere elite. Somewhere safe. But no. Turns out European Russia was on the table instead.”

Peter said nothing—just let him speak.

“So how are you so calm with this? With me?” Harry asked. “I was built to be dangerous. I’m enhanced. I’ve done things I can’t undo. And I’m…”

He trailed off, then forced it out.

“I’ve got scars across my chest. I’m not like other guys. I’m a walking contradiction. Some ‘wannabe man’ with Red Room in my blood. And I hate that part of me thinks that makes me unlovable.”

Peter listened. Then he gently laid his hand flat against Harry’s chest—right over his heart.

“You’ve always been Harry to me,” he said softly. “Even before you told me. When you did… I didn’t need to adjust. I already called you Harry. You’ve always been my Harry.”

Harry’s breath hitched at the contact.

Peter went on, thumb brushing the edge of an old scar. “This? It’s always been in the right spot. Sometimes hearts stop beating. That doesn’t mean they can’t be restarted.”

Harry’s hand covered his.

Peter swallowed. “I never stopped thinking about you. Even when I thought you were gone.”

Harry’s voice cracked. “I think about you too… You’re …. my best friend. You always were.”

Peter didn’t correct him.

Not yet.

Instead, he let their hands stay locked, and whispered, “I know.”

Harry laid his head back down.

And this time, he let himself stay.

Chapter 16: Claim and Control, Loyalty by Choice

Peter jolted awake to loud banging on the door.

His brain was still hazy, caught between sleep and confusion. The voice came in a sharp burst of Russian—too quick, too loud, cutting through the fog in his mind. The urgency, the command in the voice, had him on high alert almost immediately.

“Откройте дверь!”
Open the door!

Peter blinked in confusion. He could barely process the words, still reeling from the weird warmth of sleep. His mind slowly cleared. The knocking was insistent, demanding. And then there was something else, something pressing up against him, unfamiliar and warm.

He turned his head, eyes widening as he realized exactly how close he and Harry were.

They were tangled up in the sheets. Peter’s chest was pressed up against Harry’s side, limbs twisted together in the kind of closeness that felt too intimate for someone who wasn’t sure what they were anymore. He froze for a moment, wide-eyed, feeling his face flush, heart beating too fast.

Harry didn’t wake up instantly. He was too comfortable. Too exhausted from everything that had happened. He remained nestled against Peter’s side, a quiet sigh escaping his lips as his head tilted into the crook of Peter’s neck.

Peter gently caressed his side, careful not to startle him. “Har, you have to wake up,” he whispered softly, trying to keep his voice gentle despite the panic creeping in at the edges.

Harry’s eyes fluttered open slowly, his face still heavy with sleep, trying to focus on the source of Peter’s distress. His gaze met Peter’s, bleary but steady. “What’s going on?”

Before Peter could respond, the pounding on the door came again—louder now, more frantic.

“Откройте дверь!”
Open the door!

Harry’s eyes cleared as he listened to the voice, the panic slowly beginning to register. The realization hit him at the same time Peter did.

“Это…” he murmured, the word slipping out before he even thought about it. They’re here.
It’s them.

Peter’s confusion deepened, his mind trying to catch up with the situation. “Who? What—?”

Before Harry could answer, the door to the apartment crashed open with a sudden force, slamming against the wall.

There, framed in the doorway, stood Melina, Alexei, and Yelena—each carrying that urgency, that purpose in their faces. Their eyes swept over the room quickly, taking in the scene—Peter, still flushed, tangled in sheets, and Harry, sitting up, a little disoriented, but completely aware now.

Yelena raised an eyebrow as she crossed the threshold, her gaze immediately scanning the room. “Well, what’s this?”

Harry’s cheeks flushed deeply, his hands instinctively pulling the blanket tighter. “I didn’t expect you to find us like this.”

Melina didn’t comment on the awkward scene—she never did, always focused, always practical. She simply walked over to Harry, reaching for him and pulling him into a brief but strong embrace. “It’s good to see you alive, Harry.”

Alexei clapped Peter on the shoulder, his heavy hand surprisingly gentle, with a chuckle. “Too cozy, kid.”

Peter’s face burned even hotter, not understanding the Russian but catching the teasing tone. He nervously scratched the back of his neck, looking to Harry for some sort of explanation.

Yelena stepped forward, her arms crossed, eyes glistening with recognition, a small smile on her lips. “Peter Parker, I’m not surprised to see Harry’s here, with you that is.”

Peter blinked, still confused. “Wait—you remember me?”

Yelena’s lips quirked into a small smirk, though there was no malice in it—just dry humor. “Of course I remember you, and I’ve heard a lot.”

“Попались в паучью сеть, Хэрри?”
Caught in the spider’s net, Harry? Yelena teased, the gleam in her eyes unmistakably smug.

“Oh, don’t be such a tease—Lena,” the woman with dark hair said. “I’m Melina, and this old creepy but loving man is my husband, Alexei. We took Harry in after we took down the Red Room.”

“He’s family now,” Alexei added. “And looks like you’re about to become family too,” he said with a grin, thick Russian accent curling around every word.

“It’s nice to meet you. I’m sorry it had to be… like this,” Peter stammered, cheeks still red as he rubbed the back of his neck. He couldn’t quite meet their eyes. Harry laid a hand on his shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

“You can stay here,” Peter offered quickly, needing something to ground the moment.

Alexei grinned at Peter, still chuckling. “Because the last thing I heard is that we’ve got some butt to kick.”

Melina smirked, muttering something under her breath in Russian:
“Ну, ты всегда первый, когда дело доходит до пинания задниц.”
Well, you’re always the first when it comes to kicking butt.

Then, she raised an eyebrow and added in English with a dry smile:
“Just don’t strain your back with all that ‘butt kicking.’”

Alexei’s thick Russian accent echoed through the room as he slapped Peter on the shoulder. “Eh, kid. Don’t worry, I still got it. Old man’s got his charm, after all.”

The group laughed, and Peter, feeling a bit more at ease now, couldn’t help but smile at the friendly dynamic.

His mind still spun—Yelena remembered him. Maybe there was hope.

But for now, they had to plan ahead.

— Undisclosed Oscorp Holding Facility – Observation Room —

The light in the room was too clean. Too white. It buzzed faintly, a sterile hum that made Mary Jane feel like she was floating outside of her own skin.

Her wrists were cuffed—not to anything, just together, in smooth white polymer restraints that were somehow more unnerving than metal. Her jacket had been taken. Her phone was gone. But they’d let her keep her shoes.

She sat in the middle of the room on a single chair. No table. No guards. Just… cameras. Watching.

Waiting.

MJ tried not to look at the mirrored wall. She knew what was behind it. Or who.

She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin when the door finally clicked.

Norman Osborn stepped inside with calm, polished control. No guards flanking him. No protective gear. Just a tailored charcoal suit, crisp white shirt, and a look in his eyes that made her stomach twist.

He smiled. That familiar smile. The one she remembered from birthdays. From holidays. From quiet nights when he’d made her cocoa and told her she mattered.

“Jane,” he said softly. “You’re alright.”

MJ didn’t flinch. “Don’t call me that.”

Norman’s smile didn’t falter. “It’s your name.”

“No,” she said evenly. “It’s yours. You never liked Mary Jane. Said it sounded too messy. Too ‘ordinary.’ You stripped it down—made it fit.”

A flicker crossed his face. Not anger. Not yet. Just… calculation. “I protected you. I gave you a life. After everything you went through—your mother, that man—”

“You saved me,” MJ said. “But it wasn’t love. It was ownership.”

His jaw tensed. Just slightly.

“I never hurt you,” he said. “I gave you everything.”

“But you used me,” MJ said, her voice steady now. “And you’re still doing it.”

A beat of silence passed.

Norman stepped forward, unhurried, the door sliding shut behind him. “You’re young. You don’t understand what legacy means.”

“No,” MJ said coldly. “But I understand what obsession looks like.”

Something in Norman’s expression darkened. “You were never supposed to find out.”

“I found files,” she said. “Cloning reports. DNA replication failures. Models built from Harriet Osborn. You tried to recreate her. Over and over again.”

His voice went low. Soft. “I needed her back.”

“She didn’t die,” MJ snapped. “You gave her away. Because she was your son. And you couldn’t stand it.”

Norman’s silence was sudden and heavy. And then:

“You sound just like him.”

“He has a name,” MJ bit out. “Harry.”

Norman’s mask cracked.

“You think he’s a man just because he shaved off the parts that reminded me of what he was?” Norman hissed, stepping closer. “He was unstable. He was confused. I did what had to be done. I corrected the mistake.”

MJ stared up at him, stunned. “That’s what I am to you too, isn’t it? A correction.”

His voice dropped to a whisper. “You were supposed to be perfect. You were grateful.”

MJ’s breath caught.

“I am grateful,” she said, and for a second her voice almost broke. “But not to you. Not anymore.”

He looked at her like he was seeing something rot. “You’ve disappointed me.”

“You’ve terrified me,” she replied.

Norman turned sharply on his heel, walking to the door.

He paused just before opening it. “I spared you. That was my mistake.”

MJ’s voice was steady. “So fix it. That’s what you do, right?”

He glanced back, and for the first time, the smile didn’t come.

Only something else. Something empty.

Instead, he just nodded.

Turned around.

The faint klack of his shoes filled the silence as he stepped to the door.

The keypad clicked under his fingers. A short sequence of tones.

Beep. Beep-beep. Beep.

The door sealed shut with a hiss. MJ didn’t move at first.

She waited—counted the seconds in her head as Norman’s footsteps faded down the corridor. One Mississippi. Two. Three.

Thirty-seven seconds later, silence.

Then she stood.
Her breathing was calm, but her pulse pounded. Norman had underestimated her. Again. That would be his mistake.

She walked slowly toward the corner of the room, where the chemical mist vent hissed once every six minutes. She had memorized it. Watched it cycle. Timed it with her heartbeat.

From beneath her shirt, she reached into her bra and retrieved the underwire she’d carefully twisted free earlier. It was bent, worn flat, and sharpened by tension.

She dropped to her knees and waited.

The vent hissed open.

Snap. Twist.

The panel popped loose with a soft click. Just wide enough to reach inside.

MJ fished her fingers through the narrow slit, reaching until she found the sensor plate she’d glimpsed through the mist’s flicker. She looped the underwire through it and yanked—

Spark. Pulse.

The lights dimmed.

And the lock gave a click.

She was out.

Just like that.

⸻

Gwen came to with a headache blooming behind her eyes and the taste of iron on her tongue. The lights overhead weren’t white—they were greenish, flickering slightly. Fluorescent and clinical. Buzzing.

Her wrists were cuffed behind her back. Metal. Tight.

She was barefoot. Her boots were gone. The floor was cold. Purposefully so.

There was no chair. No table. No welcome.

Just a single room and a camera watching from the ceiling like an eye waiting for her to move.

She sat against the wall, upright, legs curled slightly to one side. Her shoulders hurt. But she stayed quiet. Still.

She didn’t react when the door slid open.

Norman stepped in.

No coat this time. Just dark sleeves and precision. No warmth. No smile.

He didn’t greet her. Didn’t offer her a name.

He stared for a moment—assessing, not acknowledging.

Then: “Gwendolyn.”

Not Gwen. Never Gwen.

She raised her eyes. Her voice was hoarse, but even. “So much for hospitality.”

“You accessed things you were never meant to touch.”

“I tend to do that,” she said. “Curiosity. You know how it is.”

He didn’t blink. “You endangered your team. You’ve compromised my work.”

Gwen’s eyes locked on his. Her voice cut cold and clear.

“You kidnapped your legal daughter, sold your own son. Experimented on him. Tried to clone him—to get a version of him that was never him in the first place. And then you threw him away.”

Norman’s expression didn’t change—just the slight narrowing of his eyes.

“I discarded an unstable prototype,” he said calmly. “That’s not cruelty. That’s progress.”

Gwen stared at him, horrified—but unflinching.

“His name is Harry,” she said. “Your son’s name is Harry.”

His jaw twitched, but he didn’t speak.

“You’re overstepping,” he said.

“And you’re unraveling,” Gwen replied coolly. “That’s the problem with people like you. You think control is the same as love.”

He stepped forward once. Just once.

“You don’t understand what I’ve built.”

“No,” she said. “But I know what you broke.”

His eyes hardened.

“You were never important enough to matter in this equation,” he said, tone almost clinical. “You’re a variable. A temporary factor.”

She smiled faintly, eyes sharp. “Guess you miscalculated.”

Another pause.

And then, suddenly, he turned and left. No further threats. No dramatic exit.

Just silence.

And the door sliding shut.

Gwen exhaled slowly. Shoulders tense. Muscles screaming.

And then, from behind the grate near the base of the wall, a whisper:

“Took you long enough.”

She turned her head sharply. MJ’s face appeared, grimy and grinning, a thin shard of metal in one hand.

Barefoot. Bruised. But moving.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” she said.

———

— Oscorp Research Wing – Restricted Sublevel —

The halls were dark, emergency lights flickering red in their metal casings. Gwen’s bare feet slapped against the floor as she ran, breath ragged, MJ just behind her. Blood trailed from a cut at Gwen’s temple that hadn’t stopped stinging since the last takedown.

The shard of metal MJ had stolen was still clutched in her fist. It had gotten them this far—out of their cells, past one guard, through one door.

But every hallway looked the same.

Gwen skidded to a stop at a junction, glancing both ways. “This way—no, wait—”

Too late.

The lights above them snapped from red to green.

A hiss echoed behind them.

MJ whirled around.

And there he was.

Norman Osborn stood at the far end of the hallway. Calm. Composed. A lab coat draped over his shoulders like a crown. Behind him, two men in black armor—Hydra or something worse. Their eyes glowed faintly green.

He didn’t shout. Didn’t run.

He just walked.

“You should’ve stayed quiet,” Norman said. “I could’ve given you mercy.”

MJ stepped in front of Gwen instinctively. “You don’t get to say that word.”

“Mercy?” Norman tilted his head. “I’m showing it to you now. I haven’t hurt either of you. That’s… intentional.”

Gwen’s fists clenched. “You’re not saving anyone. You’re just remaking them.”

He didn’t even blink.

“That’s what creation is, Gwendolyn.”

From the shadows behind him, another figure emerged.

Dr. Curt Connors.

His coat was stained. His posture slack. His eyes were glazed—detached. The version of him that used to argue for ethics was gone.

He didn’t speak. He simply gestured toward the containment wing.

MJ tried to run again, but this time the mist rolled out first—a green cloud from a hidden vent, flooding the corridor.

Too fast.

Gwen grabbed MJ’s arm—“Back!”—but the gas clung to them like fingers.

Figures moved through it—silent, fluid, glowing-eyed.

A hand slammed Gwen to the floor. MJ kicked, bit, screamed.

It didn’t matter.

And then Norman was there, looking down at them.

“You two are not test subjects,” he said calmly. “You’re observation points. You’ll see what comes next. So they will, too.”

Everything went dark

Chapter 17: Waiting For The Snow To Melt

—Abandoned Oscorp Satellite Lab – Lower Brooklyn —

The van rolled to a stop outside a forgotten Oscorp facility, tucked behind a crumbling textile factory. The Oscorp logo was barely legible beneath a decade of grime.

Peter stood at the open door, mask in hand, nerves high-strung.

“They’re not here,” Harry muttered. He hadn’t moved to step out. “We’re too late.”

Yelena scanned the perimeter. “We check anyway.”

Alexei cracked his neck. “If it’s a trap, let’s make it expensive.”

Inside, the lab was still. Low-power flickers lit the floor in pulses. It smelled of ammonia, burnt circuits—and something worse beneath that.

They moved room by room. Then Melina found it.

A sealed door—ajar. A flickering monitor still humming faintly in the corner. Inside: a lab. Recently abandoned. Surgical lights overhead. Containment restraints open and unused. A smell of chlorine hung in the air.

Peter crossed the room to a table. A torn scrap of plaid flannel.

MJ’s shirt.

He froze.

Behind him, Harry crouched by a station. A data tablet flickered to life under his fingers.

PROJECT ORPHAN-OMEGA
Subject Codename: SIREN
Status: Contained – Observation: High Reactivity

Subject Codename: NIGHTSHADE
Status: Phase II Monitoring – Active Surveillance Only

A low-res video log began to play.

MJ and Gwen. Locked in a transparent cell. Awake. Conscious. Surrounded by green mist. Not screaming—but alert, watching monitors outside the glass. Watching other people. Subjects restrained. Trialed. Injected.

The feed ended.

Peter took a step back. “This was… this wasn’t hidden.”

“It was meant to be found,” Melina said, eyes narrowing. “No signs of direct testing. No physical trauma. Just carefully edited footage.”

Harry straightened, face pale.

“Norman wanted us to see this,” Peter muttered.

Melina added, coldly, “He wants us angry. Desperate.”

Harry turned away, trembling with restraint. “He wants me to lose control.”

Peter looked at him. “He’s trying to draw us in.”

⸻

— Oscorp, Surveillance Wing – Same Moment —

Norman stood alone in his private surveillance suite, watching the screens flash with new access pings. The stolen footage had been activated. Right on time.

Behind him, Dr. Curt Connors slumped inside a sealed containment unit—breathing ragged, the effects of the green aerosol finally wearing off. Conscious. Lucid. Terrified.

Norman didn’t even glance back.

He pressed a button.

Hiss.

The vapor returned, soft and steady.

Connors flinched as the mist wrapped around him, his eyes losing their focus. Obedience seeping in like poison.

Norman turned back to the feed.

Spider-Man appeared in the frame—masked, silent, cautious. His stance was unmistakable.

And beside him, that other shape. The way he moved.

Norman’s smile curled.

“You don’t have to hunt the spider,” he said softly.
“You just let him find the web.”

A pause. Then, quieter—almost gleeful:
“And the fly brings company.”

—-

Peter stood frozen in front of the monitor.

Gwen. MJ. Trapped. Watching others be experimented on.

Harry’s breath came ragged beside him. “It is definitely a message.”

Yelena stepped closer to the terminal. “It is bait.”

“We need to go,” Melina said sharply, already scanning the exit routes. “If Norman expected us here, he won’t be far behind.”

Alexei grunted. “Or he’s already inside.”

Suddenly—click.

The lights flickered overhead. Emergency backups.

A door across the lab creaked open.

Peter’s instincts kicked in first. “Move.”

They took the service tunnel—narrow, half-collapsed, laced with decaying Oscorp cables and rusted side panels. Melina rerouted the door locks from a portable transmitter she pulled from her jacket. Harry led them through the gaps in the hallway—places he remembered from blueprints he’d seen years ago, when this place was still active.

Behind them, the faint sound of a security door powering up.

Norman wasn’t chasing.

He was watching.

Which made it worse.

——-

— Roadside Diner – Upstate New York, 3:12 AM —

The diner was the kind of place that hadn’t changed since 1975.
Cracked booths. Peeling menus. A jukebox that hadn’t worked in a decade.
But the coffee was hot, and the waitress didn’t ask questions.

They sat in the corner booth—five of them, quiet, shell-shocked. Peter still had his mask bunched up beneath his chin, fingers wrapped around a chipped mug. Harry sat beside him, MJ’s torn flannel still in his hands.

Yelena leaned back, arms crossed. Melina scanned the exits.

Alexei was on his third plate of fries. “Comfort food,” he muttered, mouth full. “For trauma.”

No one laughed.

A flickering TV mounted in the corner of the diner caught their attention. The Daily Bugle logo pulsed across the screen in lurid red.

“Breaking news in the wake of multiple disappearances across New York City.

Anonymous sources confirm that several sites connected to Oscorp have been breached in the past 48 hours.

And at least two of them? Linked to this man—”

Spider-Man’s masked face flashed on screen.

“—seen here exiting one of the locations just before security systems went dark. The Bugle has obtained exclusive footage of the site, where unknown enhancements and unregistered experiments were in progress—possibly under the influence of the webbed menace himself.”

Peter stiffened.

Harry’s jaw tightened.

Yelena muttered, “He’s laying false trails. Framing you.”

Alexei slammed his fist down on the table, rattling every cup. “This man is like a Soviet cockroach. Impossible to kill and always in someone else’s kitchen.”

Peter stood up abruptly and walked outside.

Harry followed a moment later.

 

Yelena didn’t say a word. She reached into her coat and pulled out a black, ancient flip phone. The kind that predated GPS. No tracking. No data. One of Natasha’s. One of hers now.

She stepped outside into the chill and dialed.

It rang once.

Twice.

Then—

A voice on the other end. Russian. Gruff. Wary.

“Кто это?”
Who is this?

She didn’t hesitate.

“Снежный барс проснулся. Его тени всё ещё дышат.”
The snow leopard is awake. His shadows still breathe.

Silence.

Then, low and cold:

“Где?”
Where?

She gave coordinates. Sparse. Quiet. Then added:

“Принеси щит.”
Bring the shield.

The call ended.

She stayed outside, exhaling into the cold, before reentering.

————

— Just outside the diner —

Peter stood alone, arms crossed, the air fogging faintly with every breath. The mask still covered half his face, pulled just enough to sip his coffee earlier—but now it felt suffocating.

The door creaked open behind him.

Harry approached slowly, his boots crunching gravel.

He didn’t say a word. Just stepped beside Peter and reached up to gently remove the mask.

Peter let him.

The elastic slid free. Harry caught it in one hand and looked at Peter—really looked at him—for the first time since the escape.
Not just Spider-Man in the shadows.
Not the vigilante.
Just Peter. Exhausted. Raw. And trying to hold it together.

It reminded him of himself.
Of how many times he’d stood in the cold, pretending he didn’t need anyone.
And now, it was his time to reach out.

A tear had tracked down Peter’s cheek—silent, unnoticed. Harry’s thumb brushed it away.

He didn’t say anything about it. Just reached for Peter’s hand.

Their fingers met—cold, tense—and held.

Peter exhaled hard, breath curling into the night. “This is a mess,” he whispered.

Harry gave his hand a gentle squeeze. He didn’t need to say I know.

They stood together in the cold, hands clasped, gazes fixed on the horizon.

Not running.

Not hiding.

Just breathing.

Just being.

Waiting.
For the snow to melt

Chapter 18: Ghosts in Transit

- Oscorp Containment Wing – Unknown Sublevel -

The room was too quiet.

White walls. No clock. No seams. Just the faint hum of recycled air and the cold, clinical glow of overhead fluorescents. Gwen sat curled on a narrow bench, knees pulled to her chest. Bare feet pressed against the steel floor.

Across the cell, MJ sat upright, back against the wall. Calm on the outside—but her fingers tapped a nervous rhythm into the edge of her thigh. Four beats. Pause. Four beats.

They hadn’t spoken in over an hour. There wasn’t much to say.

The green mist had faded. No more than a haze clinging to the glass outside. Observation fog. MJ had called it that once. Gwen had nodded.

They weren’t sedated. They weren’t bound.
That was the most unnerving part.

They were being watched—and they were meant to know it.

Beyond the glass wall, the hallway was empty. Gwen stared at it like it might blink first. Somewhere in another wing, a door hissed open. Then silence again.

“Time doesn’t exist in here,” MJ muttered, not looking up.

“It does,” Gwen said. “Just doesn’t belong to us.”

A click echoed beyond the wall. MJ sat forward a little. Gwen didn’t move.

Footsteps. Measured. Too familiar.

A figure passed the outer corridor window—white lab coat, stiff posture, limp in the left leg.

Dr. Connors.

MJ caught the flicker of his eye as he passed—no pause, no acknowledgment.

But something was off. His gait was uneven. Not just the limp. Sluggish. And when he stopped at the far door panel, his fingers hovered over the keypad a half-second too long before the green vapor hissed down again through the vents.

Gwen saw it too. Her eyes narrowed.

“He hesitated,” she said softly.

MJ nodded. “He’s slipping.”

They watched as Connors turned and vanished down the corridor again. No words. No expression. But the mist was weaker than before—barely visible. As if the system was thinning.

As if something inside it was breaking.

——

— PETER’S APARTMENT – EARLY MORNING -

A knock.

Peter stirs first.

There’s warmth beside him—anchored against his side, steady breathing, fingers brushing fabric like they reached for him in sleep and stayed there. Harry. Folded in beside him again. Shoulders curled. Face half-hidden by the sleeve of his hoodie.

Peter exhales slowly. Eyes still heavy. Heart just a little too fast.

He doesn’t want to move.
But the knock comes again.

He shifts carefully, tries not to wake him.

Fails.

Harry stirs, blearily blinking up, voice low and rough:

“Pete…”

Peter hesitates. Just for a second.
Then slides out of bed.

The apartment is too quiet. The couch is empty. The air mattress, half-deflated, abandoned. No sign of Yelena, Melina, or Alexei.

Behind him, Harry pushes up on one elbow, frowning toward the door.

“Where is everyone?”

Peter doesn’t answer. He’s already stepping toward it, hoodie half-zipped, hair a soft wreck.

Another knock.

He unlocks it.

And there they are.

Yelena.
Melina.
Alexei.

Peter’s about to speak—frozen mid-step.

“You’re—”

And then he appears.

Worn leather. Sharp eyes. The kind of stillness that only comes from someone who’s fought death and won too often.

“We should go,” he says.

Peter doesn’t speak.

The world stills.

Harry steps into the hall behind him—barefoot, hoodie clinging to his frame, eyes cloudy from sleep.

He sees him.

And suddenly, his body feels very cold.
Like winter.

The warmth he’d been wrapped in just a moment ago is gone—replaced by a hollow shudder. He doesn’t speak. Can’t. His awareness begins to drift. Like someone hit the off switch and left him suspended.

Yelena’s voice cuts through, soft, Russian:

“Снежный барс, как видишь.” (Snow leopard, as you see.)

His gaze lingers.
A flicker of something—recognition. Maybe guilt.

“Я помню.” (I remember.)

Harry doesn’t reply.

But his body reacts—nodding. Slow.
His mind elsewhere. As if the moment is happening to someone else.
Someone he left behind a long time ago.

Peter watches him. Watches him slipping—not outward, not away. Inward.

He reaches out. Gentle fingers curl around Harry’s wrist.

Just a touch.

“Hey,” he says, voice low. Steady.
“You with me?”

A blink.
And for just a second—he is.

And then—

“Surprised to see me here, Webhead?” James Buchanan Barnes asked, voice dry, a tight smile on his lips, a glimmer of recognition in his gaze.

And Peter—still half-dreaming, still holding Harry’s wrist—can’t think of a single thing to say.

Alexei grunts softly, adjusting the duffel on his shoulder.

“We’ll wait downstairs.”

A pause. Heavy. Like the world’s finally caught up.

And then the door closes again.

Leaving Peter and Harry in the hallway. Alone.

——-

The van is already running when Peter and Harry step outside.
If “running” is the word. It rattles like it’s coughing up history. Rust snakes up the side panels, and the passenger door is held shut by what looks like industrial tape and maybe hope.

Peter stares at it.

“That thing legal?”

Bucky (deadpan): “She’s loyal.”

Yelena: “She has character.”

Alexei: “She smells like vodka and regret.”

Melina: “She works.”

They pile in.

It’s cramped. More metal than cushion. A collection of blankets and gear shoved into corners like someone’s been living out of it. Probably because someone has.

Harry slides into the back row, pressed between the window and Peter. He doesn’t speak. Just pulls his hoodie tighter and turns his face toward the glass.

Peter settles beside him, knees knocking gently. The city starts to blur behind them.

⸻

It’s quiet.

Yelena and Melina murmur in Russian up front. Alexei snores faintly, arms crossed, mouth open. Bucky drives like the road insulted him personally—eyes sharp, jaw tense.

Harry hasn’t said a word since they left.

He watches the trees pass. Watches the sky shift from sunny to starry.
Head leaned against the window. Breath fogging faint shapes onto the glass.

There’s music playing low from someone’s old phone, speaker crackling with age. A playlist meant for no one. Or maybe just for the ones who needed saving.

“One day I am gonna grow wings
A chemical reaction
Hysterical and useless
Hysterical and

Let down and hanging around
Crushed like a bug in the ground
Let down and hanging around”

Peter’s shoulder brushes his.

Again. And again.

Harry doesn’t pull away.

A few more minutes pass in silence.

Then Peter clears his throat, voice soft but cutting through the stillness:

“Where are we even going?”

Everyone else looks like they’d already accepted not knowing.

But Peter’s not wired that way.

Yelena glances back from the front seat, unfazed.

“Steve’s place.”

Peter blinks. “Steve Rogers?”

“Used to be his. He left it to me.”, Bucky said without turning.

“…So we’re driving into the woods… to stay at a secret, untraceable cabin… owned by Captain America.”

.
.
.

“Ever heard of the movie Cabin in the Woods?”

Nobody laughs. Not right away.

“I mean, I’m just saying,” Peter continues, rubbing at his face, “we’re literally a cast of emotionally unstable fugitives headed into an isolated location with no cell service and—like—barely a plan.”

“Sounds familiar,” Yelena mutters.

“Exactly! That’s literally act one of every horror movie ever made.”

Alexei grunts. “You talk too much.”

Peter just shrugged. “Yeah, well, it’s either that or scream.”

Yelena smirks. “Can’t get worse than that shoebox of yours.”

Harry doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even blink.

He just keeps watching the road blur.

Chapter 19: The Cabin in The Woods

- CABIN – NIGHT -

Well, to say Peter was surprised when the car stopped would be putting it mildly—but honestly? It matched the whole vibe of the last few days.

The cabin matched the car.

And the car looked like it had seen at least three wars and maybe one demon possession.

The building before them was tucked deep in the woods, half-sunken in shadow. Weathered wood. A rusted-out tin roof. One of the shutters hung off its hinge, and the porch creaked before anyone even stepped on it.

It looked like it had been dragged straight out of a horror movie.

Peter stepped out of the van slowly, hoodie bunched in his hands. He blinked up at the place.

“Okay… so we’re doing this. Just casually staying in Captain America’s horror movie set.”

Yelena stretched, already walking toward the door.

“It’s isolated. Unlisted. Quiet. It’s perfect.”

“Yeah, so is every place people die in act one,” Peter muttered.

Harry stepped out behind him, silent. Still pale. Still drifting a little in the way he moved—like the ground wasn’t fully real yet.

Bucky walked past them, gravel crunching under his boots. Pulled a key from his pocket that looked older than half the team.

“It’s safe,” he said.

That was all.

———

The door creaked open like it was trying to warn them off.

Dust hung in the air. Faint light filtered through weather-worn blinds. The wooden floor groaned under Bucky’s boots as he stepped inside first, motioning for the rest to follow.

It looked… haunted.

At least from the doorway.

But as the light changed, the shape of the room shifted too—
Not chaos. Not decay.

Design.

Peter’s brows lifted as he stepped inside behind Yelena.
Beneath the dust and the flickering shadows, the place was solid. Lived in. Preserved.

The walls were paneled in warm wood. Vintage shelves lined with old books. A record player sat in the corner, next to a stack of albums. Framed photographs—black and white, frozen in time. One of them showed a young Steve Rogers standing beside Peggy Carter, both laughing at something out of frame.

And beneath it all, barely visible unless you knew where to look—tech.

A sleek control panel hidden behind a wooden cupboard.
A Stark interface embedded into the wall beneath a row of retro-style kitchen dials.
Security sensors tucked under the beams.

Peter blinked. “This… is not what I expected.”

“It was in his will. Said if the world ever broke again, someone might need a place to disappear”, Bucky said quietly.

Harry stepped inside last.

He didn’t say anything.
But his shoulders lowered just slightly.

For the first time in days—maybe weeks—he let himself breathe, gripping the door handle and pulling it shut.

No one said much.
They didn’t need to.

Boots came off. Backpacks dropped near the door. Coats hung loosely on old wooden hooks, like they’d done this before in another life. Like they weren’t fugitives. Like they weren’t broken in different ways.

Yelena moved through the space like she already knew it. Opened cabinets. Found mugs. Made noise because someone had to.

Alexei and Melina claimed the couch without discussion—Melina curling into one end with the ease of someone who hadn’t slept on furniture in days.

Harry stood near the threshold, eyes scanning the walls, the ceiling, the wiring near the windows. Not like a guest. Like a soldier.

Peter caught his eye.

“There’s a bedroom down the hall,” Bucky said, voice low. “Not much room. Two can fit. Barely.”

Yelena smirked. “Better than Peter’s shoebox.”

Peter coughed into his sleeve. “Thanks, yeah, we got it.”

——
INT. CABIN – BEDROOM – NIGHT

The room was small.
Wood-paneled walls. A faded dresser. One window, half-covered by a curtain that looked like it hadn’t been moved in years.

And one bed.

Peter hovered in the doorway, hoodie sleeves bunched in his hands, eyes flicking from the mattress to Harry like maybe that would change the math.

It didn’t.

Harry didn’t say anything. He just walked past him—quiet steps, head slightly bowed—and sat on the edge of the bed like it wasn’t really meant for comfort. Like it was another surface he was waiting to be pushed off of.

He sat.

Not like a soldier. Not like someone bracing to run.
Just… sat.

Peter stood there for a beat longer, awkward in his own skin. Then moved to the other side and sank down beside him. The bed creaked. It didn’t have to be that loud, but it was.

Peter nudged him gently. Then slowly reached for his hand—giving Harry every chance to pull away.

He didn’t.

So Peter let his fingers travel up Harry’s arm, tracing faint lines over scarred skin. Not asking. Not staring. Just… touching. Noticing. Being there.

Harry was caught off guard by it—by the softness. By the fact that someone was brushing across the parts of him he usually hides, and not treating them like something broken.

He stayed still.

On his back, eyes half-lidded, arm stretched out toward Peter as if anchoring him. The quiet pressure of fingertips against damaged skin sent something calm rippling through his system—a signal that it was okay to sleep.

And he did.

Peter waited a little longer, watching him. Just watching.

Then, gently, he pulled his hand away. Stood. Reached for the blanket and drew it over Harry’s sleeping form with careful precision.

And without a word, he stepped out, closing the door behind him as quietly as he could.

⸻

- CABIN – LIVING ROOM – NIGHT -

When Peter stepped into the living room, he was immediately met with silence—and eight eyes staring back at him.

Yelena sat perched on the arm of the couch, arms folded, her expression unreadable but calm. Melina was beside her, wrapped in a blanket, eyes steady and quiet. Alexei had sunk deep into the old chair, the half-eaten remains of a protein bar forgotten in his hand. And Bucky stood leaning against the far wall, arms crossed like he’d always belonged in the shadows, watching everything with the kind of stillness only someone like him could hold.

No one spoke for a moment. It was the kind of silence that wasn’t hostile—just full. Full of the things none of them needed to say out loud.

Then Yelena broke it, her voice lower than usual, almost gentle.

“He’s not sleeping much, is he?”

Peter shook his head.

“Barely at all.”

Melina’s voice followed, calm but knowing. “And you?”

He shrugged—half-hearted, a little too tired to be casual. “I sleep when he does. He needs it more than me.”

Bucky finally spoke, his tone quiet, rough with history. “He’s been trained to survive—not to recover. It’s not in his nature.”

Peter looked up, meeting his eyes. There was no judgment there. Just understanding. One soldier recognizing another.

Yelena tilted her head slightly. “You keep reaching for him. But he’s not always there.”

Peter didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. It was true.

Some days, Harry was fully here—sharp, angry, smart, painfully alive. And others… Peter would look at him and feel like he was staring through glass. Like Harry was still inside, somewhere, but lost in his own static.

“You keep trying anyway,” Yelena added.

He nodded, slowly. When he finally spoke, his voice was thin, barely more than a whisper.

“I promised I wouldn’t leave him behind.”

There was a beat of silence—long, heavy.

Then Alexei grunted from the chair, voice gruff but not unkind. “You didn’t.”

Peter blinked, caught off guard by how much that hit.

Yelena studied him for a moment before she continued, her voice gentler than before.

“And he seems to trust you. More than anyone. But that kind of trust… it’s heavy. You know that, right?”

Peter nodded again. “Yeah. I know.”

“Then take care of yourself too,” she said. “He won’t let you carry him forever.”

Peter didn’t answer this time. He just looked down at his hands, picking at a loose thread in his hoodie sleeve. The silence pressed around him like a blanket, full of breath and things unsaid.

Alexei shifted in his chair, clearing his throat.

“You are not his savior, little spider,” he said. “You are his…” He paused, squinting toward Melina. “What is this generation calling it again?”

Peter blinked. “He’s not my boyfriend,” he said quickly, too quickly.

Alexei smirked. “We’ll see about that.”

Yelena’s lips curled at the edge. She leaned back slightly, studying Peter with something between affection and mischief. “We’re not staying here forever.”

Peter glanced up, cautious. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she said, straightening her posture, “rest is good. We need it. He needs it. But we’re not done. Gwen and MJ are still out there. Norman’s still moving pieces.”

Melina nodded. “And there’s help. Not much. But enough.”

Peter swallowed, the tension creeping back into his shoulders.

“Help from who?”

Yelena leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “An old friend. He’s already on his way.”

Alexei let out a loud, theatrical yawn, stretching like a bear shaking off hibernation. “Enough for today,” he said, waving a hand. “We all need sleep. You go back to your ‘boyfriend’ before someone else claims the bed.”

Peter didn’t argue.

He just shook his head—half-exasperated, half-exhausted—and turned back toward the hallway, a little more warmth in his chest than when he’d walked in, but just as fragile.

——

The door creaked open softly.

Peter stepped inside again, barefoot, hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up his arms. The room was dark, warm—the kind of quiet that felt thick. Like something could shatter it with a whisper.

He eased the door shut behind him and turned toward the bed.
Toward Harry.
His Harry.

“You left.”

The voice came small, raw. Almost like it had been waiting.

Peter froze.
Oh shit.

Harry had shifted in the bed. His eyes were open now, barely, blinking slow in the dark. The blanket had slipped down off one shoulder, and his voice carried that haze between sleep and panic—the kind that didn’t show on his face, but lived just under the skin.

Peter stepped closer.

“Only for a minute, Har. I was in the living room, talking to the team.”

Harry didn’t sit up. He didn’t even move, but his eyes followed Peter like he was afraid he’d disappear again.

“I’m sorry, Pete. It’s just—”
I got vulnerable. And I’m too much to handle. I thought you left me.

Peter didn’t hesitate this time.

He walked to the bed, lowered himself behind Harry—over the blanket, not under it. Not pressing. Just close. Close enough to hear him breathe, close enough to be there.

“What’s going on in that head of yours, Harry?” he whispered.

Harry’s voice was quiet, cracked around the edges.

“There’s so much. But it’s just… you stopped touching me and left the room afterwards. And then I thought I messed up.”

Peter reached across, hand settling lightly on Harry’s arm—beneath the blanket. Fingers brushing the familiar scarred skin. He didn’t trace it. He just stayed there. Just enough pressure to say: I’m here.

“Oh, Har… it’s already messy. But it’s not your fault. I’m with you. Like you’ve been with me.”

Harry exhaled—slow, steady, grounding himself.

Then, after a pause:

“You better come under the blanket, Parker. You need rest too.”

Peter smiled softly. “I didn’t want to crowd you.”

“You’re not,” Harry murmured. Then, after a beat: “You’re home.”

Peter blinked. That one hit.

So he slipped under the blanket.

And as he settled, Harry reached back without hesitation, scooting closer—then turning, tucking himself into the crook of Peter’s neck like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“This okay?” Harry asked, voice muffled.

He didn’t get an answer.

Just a deep breath.

And a soft snore.

———

- INT. OSBORN CONTAINMENT – NIGHT -

The lights never go off.

Not fully.

Gwen blinked into the fluorescent glow like it might finally go dim, just once. Just enough to pretend it was night. But the walls didn’t change. The shadows didn’t move. The vents still hissed every few minutes with that faint trace of green she could smell before she could see it.

Somewhere nearby, metal clanged. Then a scream—short, muffled, not MJ’s.

Not yet.

She stared at the blank wall in front of her, jaw locked.
They’re coming back.
Not for her.
Not first.

For someone else. So she could watch.

Across the room, the cameras shifted slightly with a soft mechanical hum.

Someone was still watching them.
Like rats inside a lab.

Chapter 20: Cabin at Dawn

- OSBORN CONTAINMENT – NIGHT -

The lights never turned off.

They just hummed louder when it got quiet.

MJ pressed her back to the cold wall, knees drawn to her chest. Her hospital gown stuck to the curve of her spine, damp from sweat or fear—she couldn’t tell anymore.

Across the glass, Gwen hadn’t moved in hours. She sat rigid on the bench, arms crossed, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the same corner of the room like she could will herself through it.

Neither of them spoke.

Speaking was a risk.

Someone—or something—was always listening.

The vents hissed again. Thin trails of green leaked in like a memory. MJ’s hand twitched. Gwen’s nostrils flared.

She could smell it before it thickened.

Another dose.

Not enough to knock them out. Just enough to make them watch.

⸻

-- OBSERVATION HALL – SIMULTANEOUS —

Norman stood with his hands clasped behind his back. Perfect posture. Perfect suit. A perfect stillness—like a statue waiting for applause.

On the other side of the glass, Gwen shifted.

He didn’t blink.

“They’re adapting to the aerosol,” he said calmly. “Impressive.”

Behind him, Dr. Connors stood silent. Trembling slightly. The dark shadows under his eyes had turned into bruises. He hadn’t spoken in hours.

Norman turned slightly. Not enough to face him—just enough to make the threat land.

“Do you have something to add, Dr. Connors?”

Connors flinched.

“…No.” His voice was dry. Frayed. A shadow of what it once was.

Norman smiled.

“Good.”

⸻

- CONTAINMENT CELL – NIGHT -

The mist began to fade.

MJ moved first—slow, groggy, but alert. She reached across the room, fingers brushing the floor until she found Gwen’s hand.

She didn’t say anything.

Just squeezed.

And Gwen—finally—looked away from the corner. Looked at her.

“We have to get out,” she whispered. “Soon. Before it gets worse.”

MJ nodded.

But her eyes drifted back toward the vent.

Because she already knew—it was going to get worse.

⸻

- OSBORN TOWER – PRIVATE BOARDROOM – NIGHT -

The boardroom felt more like a surgical theater than a conference space—sterile, soundproofed, too bright in all the wrong places. The kind of room where decisions were made quietly… and then broadcast to the world like they’d always been true.

Norman Osborn sat at the head of the table, tablet in front of him, fingers idle on a sleek black stylus. Across from him sat a man in his early thirties—clean suit, smart shoes, jaw clenched just a little too tight.

He introduced himself simply as Brock.
Didn’t offer a first name.
Didn’t need to.

Norman liked him already. Ambitious. Careful. Useful.

He tapped the screen once. Drone footage flickered to life—grainy, stabilized just enough. A forest. A van. Two figures stepping out. One in a hood, face obscured. The other visible in profile.

Harry.
Or rather—Theo Harrison.

“Pulled from an upstate drone sweep,” Norman said. “Surveillance flagged the enhanced signature. That’s Harrison. The other… likely Spider-Man.”

Brock leaned in, studying the frame. His brow creased.

“Spider-Man?”
He said it like a question. Like a puzzle.

Norman smiled faintly. “The colors show through.”

And they did. Just enough red and black beneath the hoodie to make it plausible. Not provable. But that wasn’t the point.

“You don’t need to name him,” Norman continued. “You just need to cast the shadow.”

He let the line hang. Then added—so soft it sounded like concern:

“He’s involved. Kidnapped my daughter with Harrison. Made her vanish. I’m so worried. What if I lose Jane too?”

Brock nodded slowly, piecing it together.

“Pair it with Jane’s disappearance. The Oscorp break-in. The missing data. Frame it as concealment. National security risk.”

“Exactly.”

The words landed like a dropped scalpel. Precise. Cold.

Brock adjusted the tablet under his arm, still trying to look unaffected.

Then:

“We’ll have the story drafted by morning. Headline will lean into uncertainty—‘Spider-Man Allegedly Harboring Enhanced Fugitive.’ We’ll include speculative location data. Just enough to draw attention.”

He looked up, cautious.

“If they’re off-grid, someone will find them.”

Norman adjusted the cuff of his shirt with quiet precision.

“Good. Let the public flush them out.”

After a pause, Brock cleared his throat.

“And… the other girl? There was mention of—”

Norman cut him off without looking.

“Irrelevant.”

Brock nodded quickly. Too quickly.

Norman stood, smoothing the crease in his sleeve.

“You’ll get your exclusive,” he said. “Make it count.”

Brock hesitated a beat—then turned and walked out, tablet in hand, posture a little less confident than when he entered.

But he left with the footage.
And the lie.

Norman remained alone in the silence.

His reflection shimmered faintly in the dark screen, blurred and doubled.
Waiting to be believed.

——-

- DAILY BUGLE NETWORK – EMERGENCY BULLETIN -

The anchor’s face was stern. Unshaken. He spoke over soft footage playing in the background—faint red and black blurs, a van in the woods, a cabin barely visible through trees.

“Authorities are investigating leaked footage suggesting Spider-Man may be harboring an enhanced fugitive previously linked to Oscorp biotesting projects. The individual—identified as Theo Harrison—was presumed dead following a failed internal program.”

MJ’s breath caught.

Footage flickered again.
A still image: a side profile, hood up, mask visible beneath.
Peter.

Then Harry.
No—not Harry. Theo.
His name didn’t exist anymore. Not here.

“In addition,” the voice continued, “unconfirmed sources report that Jane Osborn-Watson may be involved in the disappearance of classified Oscorp data. A spokesperson for Norman Osborn has issued the following statement—”

The footage cut to Norman in a studio: perfect suit, soft lighting, eyes glassy with just the right amount of grief.

“I just want my daughter home. I want answers. I want safety for everyone—especially for Jane. If anyone sees them—please, contact authorities. We are working closely with federal agencies to locate and recover what was lost.”

Gwen pressed her palm to the wall, leaning toward the screen.

“He’s playing the victim.”

MJ didn’t speak. Her hand had curled into a fist on her lap, nails biting into skin.

Then, the final sting:

“Reports suggest their last known location may have been a remote site north of Jersey. Citizens in surrounding counties are encouraged to report any unusual activity.”

The screen went black.

Silence.

Gwen turned slowly toward MJ.

“They’re coming.”

—-

The room was still when Harry woke.

Early light crept in through the curtain seams, dim and pale, casting long shadows across the wooden floor. There was warmth behind him—steady, quiet. Peter. Folded close, breath slow and even against the back of Harry’s neck.

An arm rested loosely over his waist, fingers curled gently into the hem of his hoodie. They must have found each other sometime during the night, without meaning to. Or maybe they had. Maybe this had become a kind of pattern neither of them could name yet.

Harry didn’t move.

He just breathed in.

Peter smelled like detergent and something soft—coffee and old cotton, like warmth tucked into a corner. Safe. He closed his eyes for another second. Memorized it.

Then, gently, carefully, Harry turned.

Peter didn’t stir.

His face was half-buried in the pillow, hair a mess of chaotic curls, mouth slack in sleep. He looked peaceful in a way that made Harry ache a little. Like he didn’t want to disturb the illusion.

Harry reached up and brushed a few strands of hair from Peter’s forehead, fingers lingering just long enough to feel the shape of it. Just long enough to feel connected.

Then he pulled back. Quiet. Controlled.

He eased out of the bed without a sound, bare feet hitting the cold floor. Pulled his hoodie tighter. The warmth disappeared behind him, but he didn’t look back.

He stepped into the hallway and left the door cracked behind him.

——

The living room was steeped in silence.

Muted blue filtered through the frosted windows, outlining everything in stillness. The only sound was the faint groan of old floorboards settling under someone else’s weight.

Bucky was already awake.

He sat near the window in an aging armchair, posture sharp, back straight, gaze fixed on the trees outside. He didn’t move when Harry entered.

Just said, without turning:

“You always wake this early?”

Harry moved to perch on the arm of the couch across from him, pulling his sleeves over his hands.

“I never really stopped.”

I don’t sleep like normal people anymore. I don’t get peace. I never learned how to stop watching my back.

Silence.

Not empty. Just worn in.

Harry studied Bucky from the side. The way his fingers twitched slightly against the wood. The way his body sat so still, like stillness itself was an act of discipline.

“You’re tense,” Harry said quietly.

Bucky’s jaw shifted.

“Something’s changed.”

Harry tilted his head slightly, reading him.

“You know something.”

Finally, Bucky looked over. His voice stayed low.

“News broke an hour ago.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed.

“Footage?”

Bucky nodded.

“You and Peter. Cabin, forest, grainy surveillance. They didn’t name him, but it’s enough.”

Harry exhaled slowly through his nose.

“And me?”

“Theo Harrison,” Bucky said. “Jane Osborn. Victim. Lost daughter. The public’s meant to be afraid for you.”

A humorless breath escaped Harry’s chest.

“Of course,” he muttered. “He even got the name right.”

“They’re coming,” Bucky said, turning back toward the glass.

“Hydra?”

“No,” Bucky said. “Press.”

It happened fast.

Harry stood and crossed to the window, instinct already pulling the lines tight inside him. The trees looked the same at first. Still. Undisturbed.

Then a flicker.

Movement behind the brush. A camera lens.

And another shape, crouched low. Backpack. Tripod.

His whole body stilled.

“They found us,” he said.

Bucky was already moving.

“Two at least. Press badges. Probably local. Someone leaked the coordinates.”

Harry didn’t blink.

“How long?”

“Ten minutes. Maybe less.”

“Any sensors breached?”

“Not yet.”

Harry’s voice dropped a note lower.

“Wake the others. We don’t stay here.”

“You thinking diversion?”

Harry’s jaw tightened.

“I’m thinking control.”

——

The door creaked open.

Harry stepped inside and crossed quietly to the bed.

Peter hadn’t moved. His arm had shifted slightly in sleep, now resting where Harry’s body had been. Like he’d reached for him and missed.

Harry hesitated.

Then knelt by the bed, placing a hand gently on Peter’s shoulder.

“Pete.”

Peter groaned, rolling toward the sound.

“Five more minutes…”

“Pete,” Harry repeated, lower now. “I need you to wake up.”

Something in his voice made Peter blink. Slow at first. Then sharper.

“Harry…?” He rubbed at his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“They found us.”

Peter sat up, instantly awake. “What—who—Hydra?”

Harry shook his head.

“Press.”

Peter swore under his breath. “How long?”

“Ten minutes. Max. Maybe less.”

He stood, reached out, fingers brushing Peter’s wrist.

“Get dressed. We’re not staying.”

Peter nodded as the weight of it settled in.

Harry didn’t move.

His hand stayed right there, grounding him. Not a grip. Not force.

Just connection.

“I’ve got you,” Harry said softly. “But we move now.”

And Peter didn’t question it.

Because that was enough.

⸻

- CABIN – LIVING ROOM – MINUTES LATER -

Peter was pulling on his hoodie as he entered the room. Harry right behind him—silent, sharp-eyed, fully back in control.

Yelena stood in the kitchen, barefoot, mug in hand, her eyes already locked on the boys as they walked in.

“Something wrong?”

Harry didn’t flinch.

“Press. East ridge. Cameras.”

Melina stirred from the couch. Alexei was already halfway into his boots.

Bucky stood near the front window, tense. “Back route’s clear—for now. We’ve got fifteen minutes, maybe less.”

Peter stepped to his side and looked out.

There. Movement in the trees. Shadows shifting where they shouldn’t. The glint of a lens.

“They’re here for Spider-Man,” he muttered.

Harry said nothing. His presence was enough.

“They’re not going to knock,” Yelena said. “They’re going to broadcast.”

“Unless we’re gone before they get the shot,” she added, already pulling her hair back. “What’s the exit?”

“South slope,” Bucky answered. “Tire tracks are covered. I’ll take point.”

“Where do we go?” Peter asked. “We can’t go back to the city. Not now.”

“I know,” Yelena said, already smirking. “That’s why I made a call last night.”

Harry glanced toward her.

“You called Sam.”

She nodded. “Do you think I trust Barnes to coordinate shelter?”

Alexei grunted. “You people act like I do not know how to sleep in car.”

Melina rolled her eyes. “You snore like moose.”

“No one cares,” Harry muttered, zipping up his jacket.

“Sam’s sending coordinates,” Yelena continued. “Old Stark property. Off-grid. No press. No noise. Enough space for all of us—barely.”

Peter blinked. “Stark property? That’s—”

“A last resort,” Bucky interrupted. “And we just became one.”

Peter’s fingers curled tighter around the edge of his mask. He tucked it into his jacket.

“Then let’s move.”

⸻
- CABIN BACK EXIT -

Cold air greeted them like a warning.

They moved fast but quiet. Boots crunching frost. Packs loaded with only what mattered. The door left slightly ajar behind them—intentional. An illusion of panic. A baited trail.

The trees swallowed them quickly.

Peter stuck close to Harry, his hand brushing against his arm every so often, as if just to make sure he was still there. Harry didn’t pull away.

Bucky took point. Yelena checked her phone once as it buzzed.

She tossed it to Peter.

“Coordinates. Sam sent them. Use your Stark toys.”

Peter caught it. Scanned the screen.

A single line of grid code. A single word: PHANTOM.

His stomach twisted.

He remembered that label.

Stark had used it only twice. One site was long gone. The other? Hidden. Untouched. Meant for ghosts.

“I can get us there,” he said.

Harry met his eyes. “You good?”

Peter hesitated. Then nodded.

“Ask me when we’re inside.”

Chapter 21: Somewhere Safe Enough

- OSCORP – SURVEILLANCE CHAMBER – LATE MORNING -

Norman stood with his hands clasped behind his back, the blue glow of surveillance monitors lighting the edges of his face like a mask.

The main screen played a new clip.

Drone footage.

From above: the cabin.
Camera crews pushing through the brush. A news van awkwardly reversing down the narrow forest road. Someone shouting, off-screen.

And then—they emerged.

Peter. Harry. Bucky. Yelena. Alexei.
Scrambling. Fleeing.

Yelena had her arm around Harry’s shoulders, half-dragging him toward the van.
Bucky moved like a shield, intercepting the first glimpse of a camera flash.
Peter, hoodie pulled up, had turned back—just once—to look at the cabin they were abandoning.

They piled in.

And they were gone.

Norman didn’t blink.

He just exhaled through his nose—calm. Measured.

Good.

“Let them run.”
A pause. Then, quieter—almost amused:

“I like to hunt.”

He tapped a button on the console.
Rewind. Play. Rewind.

Harry’s face flashed briefly on screen.
Tired. Pale. Vulnerable.

Norman smiled faintly.

Then walked to the side wall, where another panel controlled the internal monitors.

⸻

- OSCORP – CONTAINMENT CELL – MOMENTS LATER -

The room lit up with soft white light.

Gwen sat cross-legged on the bench, eyes closed.
MJ stood near the glass, tense.

Then the screen activated.

Footage played. No sound.

The press. The panic. The team fleeing into a battered van.
Peter shouting something to Bucky.
Harry stumbling into the passenger seat.
The cabin disappearing behind them.

MJ’s breath hitched.

Gwen stood.

“What is this?” she demanded.

Norman’s voice crackled in through the intercom.

“Your rescue team.”

The footage looped again.
This time slower. Sharper. Crueler.

Norman chuckled.

The screen flickered, then went dark.

Only their reflections stared back.

A long pause.

And then, quiet. Almost under her breath—Gwen spoke.

“They shouldn’t have to run.”
A beat. Her gaze dropped. Jaw tight.
“Not anymore.”

————-

 – ON THE ROAD – SHORTLY AFTER DAWN -

The windows fogged gently with each breath, softening the edges of the outside world. The heater rattled low. It did what it could.

The van hummed down an empty stretch of frost-bitten road, the trees outside passing like shadows on a loop.

No one spoke.

Peter sat in the far back, shoulder pressed against the van wall, hoodie pulled tight, the curve of his knuckles resting just beside his thigh. Close, but not clenched. His foot tapped rhythmically, barely audible.

Harry sat next to him.

He didn’t say a word—but somewhere between minute seven and minute ten of silence, his hand shifted. Found Peter’s on the seat between them. Just fingertips, at first. Light. Testing.

Peter didn’t flinch.

Didn’t speak.

He just let Harry’s hand slide into his palm, fingers threading slowly, carefully, like they’d done it before but never like this.

No one looked back at them. No one interrupted.

Harry leaned in slightly, their shoulders brushing, foreheads almost close.

Still no words.

Peter turned his hand palm-up, letting Harry’s rest there. He ran his thumb slowly across the calloused skin of Harry’s knuckles. Over old scars. Soft circles. Slow, grounding.

Harry exhaled through his nose. He closed his eyes and leaned back just a little, keeping their hands where they were—linked, unmoving, quiet.

No smiles. No declarations.

Just skin. And heat. And a pulse you could trust.

Up front, Yelena’s voice cut in finally.

“You sure this place is real?”

Bucky didn’t glance back. His hands stayed steady on the wheel.

“If Tony built it, it’s real.”

Yelena snorted faintly, arms crossed.

“If he didn’t want you to find it, even better.”

Peter gave Harry’s hand the gentlest squeeze.

Harry opened his eyes, met Peter’s gaze for half a second.

“He wouldn’t have given it to Sam unless it mattered.”

Peter nodded. Didn’t let go.

Neither did Harry.

The road stretched on.

And somewhere behind all the static and silence, a kind of warmth remained.

Chapter 22: A Little Wild, a little free

The van pulled to a stop beside a long-forgotten structure nestled between skeletal trees. Not a cabin this time—something more angular. Modernist bones overgrown with vines, windows half-fogged from the cold.

It looked like it hadn’t been touched in years.

But something buzzed beneath the silence.

Bucky killed the engine.

For a moment, no one moved.

Then Yelena pushed the door open and stepped out first, arms crossed, boots crunching on the frost. She eyed the structure like it might explode.

“This is it?”

Bucky nodded, rounding the front of the van.

“Off-grid. Retrofitted by Stark himself. Sam said it was locked until last month.”

Peter climbed out next, stretching his legs, hoodie bunched around his elbows. Harry followed, slower. Quieter.

His hand brushed Peter’s as he stepped down. He didn’t say anything.

Inside, the place opened like a secret.

——

- STARK SAFEHOUSE – NIGHT-

The air had settled by the time they’d finished eating—if you could call ration packs and reheated canned soup “eating.” The heat was on low, humming through floor vents. Quiet. Mechanical.

Exhaustion hung over the group like smoke.

Peter leaned against the kitchen counter, spoon dangling in his fingers, eyes half-lidded. Across from him, Harry sat curled into the corner of the couch, hoodie sleeves bunched in his fists, gaze fixed on nothing in particular.

Bucky stood up first.

“Two bedrooms down the hall. One to the left, one at the end.”

Yelena didn’t even look up. “I call left.”

Melina raised an eyebrow.
“You’re taking it alone?”

“No,” she said flatly. “With you. We’re a matched set.”

Alexei grunted as he stood and stretched, cracking something that probably shouldn’t have cracked. “I’ll take the couch. Real men take pain with posture.”

Peter opened his mouth to offer something.

Alexei cut him off. “You and the snow leopard can share. You’re small. You generate heat.”

Peter blinked.
Harry didn’t even lift his head.

Yelena looked up then, smirking slightly. “Unless you’re too shy, Spider.”

Peter made a strangled sound.
“No—I mean—it’s fine. Yeah. Totally fine.”

Harry stood slowly. Hoodie still pulled tight.

“C’mon,” he murmured, not looking at anyone. “End of the hall.”

Peter followed.

Bucky watched them go, then sat back down in silence

——

The hallway was quiet when the door clicked open.

Peter stepped in first, ducking slightly under the low frame like he needed to shrink himself down to fit the stillness inside.

The room was clean. Stark-standard. A little too symmetrical. One bed. Neutral light filtering in through the dimmed panel near the wall. The kind of space that held no history—just silence and function.

Harry hovered in the doorway for a second longer.

His eyes drifted across the room, landing on the bed.

Then on Peter.

He didn’t say anything.

Just waited.

Peter turned, caught the look, and offered the smallest smile—nervous at the edges.

“You can take the side near the wall,” he murmured. “It’s probably warmer.”

Harry stepped in. Toed off his shoes one at a time. His hoodie stayed on, loose and oversized, sleeves tucked over his knuckles.

He walked to the bed, peeled back the blanket, and climbed in without a word. Settled on his side. Back facing Peter. Not cold. Just… waiting.

Peter didn’t move for a beat.

Then he exhaled. Soft. Steady.

He kicked off his socks, pulled his sweater over his head in one slow motion, and crossed the room barefoot. The air was cool. The sheets even cooler.

But the second he slid beneath the blanket, it changed.

He didn’t lay flat.

He rolled onto his side—toward Harry.

Harry, who was still curled in a loose ball, shoulder blades tense beneath cotton, breath light and steady.

He felt Peter behind him. Of course he did.

But he didn’t shift.

Not yet.

Peter hesitated—just for a second—then inched forward.

Closed the space.

Let his chest brush Harry’s back. Let his arm snake around Harry’s waist, light as a breath. Let his hand settle, open-palmed, against his stomach.

Not gripping. Not asking.

Just there.

Harry relaxed.

Slow. Subtle.

Like a question answered.

And then—without looking—his hand reached back, found Peter’s, and threaded their fingers together beneath the blanket. No comment. No hesitation.

Peter exhaled. He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath.

Harry shifted again, tucking back into him, head tilting slightly until it came to rest just under Peter’s chin. Their knees touched. Their legs aligned. Peter could feel the shape of him, the warmth of him, every inch of connection.

And they didn’t pull away.

Didn’t joke. Didn’t move.

Peter’s thumb moved first—brushing gently over Harry’s knuckles, tracing a line down his wrist. Back and forth. Back and forth.

Harry leaned in. Just slightly.

“You okay?” Peter whispered into his hair.

Harry nodded. “Yeah.”

His voice was soft. Drowsy. Honest.

And then—barely audible:

“You smell good.”

Peter blinked. His breath caught.

“Yeah?” he whispered.

“Like... something safe.” A pause. “Like something I used to dream about.”

Peter didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.
His hand just squeezed a little tighter.

Harry nuzzled closer.

“You always this touchy?” he asked, half-asleep now, words slurring into comfort.

“Only with you.”

Peter didn’t mean to say it.

But he didn’t take it back.

And Harry didn’t flinch.

He just kept holding his hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

They didn’t move.

Didn’t talk.

Didn’t stop.

And Peter—
Peter lay there in the dark, Harry’s breath warm on his collarbone, their fingers still threaded,

—and thought that they never really were just friends.

——

It starts in fragments.

Fingers brushing skin.
A hoodie slipping off shoulders.
The sound of breath—sharp, shallow, wanting.

Peter doesn’t know where they are. Doesn’t need to.
The world is background.
What matters is *him.*

Harry.
Close.
Touching.
Everywhere.

Peter’s back hits something—a wall? A bed? He doesn’t know. Doesn’t care.

Harry leans in. Not rough. Not hesitant.
His hands find Peter’s jaw. His thumbs ghost over his cheekbones. Their foreheads press together.

“You’re sure?” Harry whispers.

Peter nods.

And then—

They’re kissing.

Not like a first kiss.
Like something remembered.
Like something earned.

Harry’s mouth is hot and slow, lips parted just enough to make Peter ache. He kisses like he’s memorizing the shape of Peter’s breath. Like he’s waited forever and still wants to take his time.

Peter grips his shirt—pulls him closer.
Feels the weight of him settle against his chest.
Hears the way Harry exhales against his throat when Peter mouths at his jaw.

There’s tension in his fingertips. In the way Harry grips his waist. In the way Peter arches into him, desperate for friction, for grounding, for more.

Hands drag under fabric. Bare skin. Breathless heat.

A low sound—Harry’s voice, something broken and hungry, whispered into Peter’s ear:

“I want you.”

Peter gasps.

Not from shock.

From recognition.

Because God, he wants him too.

And suddenly, Peter jolts awake.

He’s still curled around Harry. Their legs still tangled. Harry still tucked beneath his chin like nothing changed.

Peter’s body is on fire.

His breath stutters.

He’s—yeah.

Yeah.

He peels himself away, silent and aching, slipping out from under the blanket like it burns him.

The cold doesn’t help.

But it’s better than staying.

———

Peter padded barefoot through the dim corridor, hoodie tugged halfway over his hands, cheeks still flushed with heat that hadn’t faded.

His heart hadn’t slowed.

He rubbed his face, trying to erase it.
Not the dream—
*The wanting.*

Then he saw the door.

Unmarked. Steel trimmed. Slightly ajar.

Weird.

He stepped forward.

Pressed his hand to the panel beside it—
And it slid open with a hiss.

———

- STARK LAB – CONTINUOUS -

Blue light.

Cool air.

Silence, but the humming kind—like tech breathing just beneath the walls.

Peter stepped inside, slow.

His fingertips brushed one of the panels.

The screen sparked.

A flicker. A pulse of code. A voice.

“Took you long enough, kid.”

Peter stopped cold.

He didn’t breathe.

The projection flickered into place.
Not stable.
Not whole.
But unmistakably—
Tony Stark.

Peter stumbled back a step, nearly tripping over a cable.

“Nope. No way. No freaking way—”

He rubbed his face.
Paced in a circle.
Rubbed it again.

“That—was not supposed to work.”

Tony folded his arms. Looked amused.

“Oh, it was. You’re just not used to winning.”

Tony’s image warped again.

“Not enough power. You’ll need the—”

The projection froze.

Peter looked down.

Saw something under the console.

Pulled it out.

It was circular. Smooth metal. Cold.
Shaped like a miniature arc reactor.

Of course he plugged it in.

Because he’s Peter.
And Peter’s never known how to keep his hands off things he wasn’t supposed to touch.

The console whined.
Then the lights shifted.

Tony sparked back—glitchy, cracked.
Until—

“Password required.”

Peter blinked. Typed the first thing that came to mind:

Underoos.

Accepted.

Lab lights came fully online.

Tony Stark materialized clean, steady, more real than before.

“Knew you’d get it, kid.”

Peter stared at him, stunned.

“You… left this for me?”

Tony raised an eyebrow.

“Who else?”

Then his gaze drifted downward. Paused.

Smirked wider.

“Though, uh—maybe before we get too deep into this, you take a second to, I dunno, cool off.”

Peter blinked.

Followed the glance—

—and flushed scarlet.

“Oh my God—”

“Look, I’m flattered,” Tony said, folding his arms. “But I didn’t think rebooting me would be *that* exciting.”

Peter groaned, burying his face in his hands.

“You’re not real. You can’t say that.”

“I can say whatever I want, Webhead 2.0. Next time you wake up tangled around someone you’re clearly in love with, maybe don’t boot up the dead guy AI.”

“…you know about Harry?”

Tony gave him a look.

“Kid. I knew before *you* did.”

And Peter—

He just laughed.

A little wild.

A little free.

And maybe—for the first time in a long time—

A little okay.

Chapter 23: Someone To Chase

- STARK SAFEHOUSE – BEDROOM – MORNING -

Harry stirred.

The first thing he noticed was the quiet.

The second was that he was alone.

The blankets were still warm.
The pillow beside him still held the faint indentation where Peter had been. His scent clung to the sheets—clean cotton, old hoodie, skin-warmed static. Like last night never left.

But he had.

Harry rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. The ache in his chest wasn’t sharp. It was just familiar.

He should be used to this by now—waking up and finding comfort gone. People don’t stay. They never do. He’d spent years training himself not to need that kind of warmth. Not to reach for it in the dark.

But he had.

And now his hands were empty again.

He blinked once. Then twice. Swallowed the sting behind his ribs.

Get up.

He sat up slowly. Hoodie twisted at his waist. Scarred fingers rubbing at his eyes like sleep had been something heavy.

He didn’t bother with socks. Just padded out into the hallway barefoot, silent. Familiar with shadows.

The house was awake. Somewhere.

Murmurs drifted from the kitchen—low voices, something rhythmic. Footsteps against old wood. A mug against the counter.

He turned the corner—

And stopped.

There was a man standing in the center of the living room. Broad-shouldered. Tactically built. Not part of their crew from the day before.

He wore red and blue.
And wings—sleek, folded tight against his back. His stance said soldier.
His eyes said watchful.

Sam Wilson turned slightly when he heard the footstep.

And froze too.

Their eyes met.

Harry didn’t flinch. He just stared—quiet, unreadable, hoodie sleeves pulled over his palms like armor.

Sam was the one who spoke first.

“You must be Snow Leopard.”

Harry blinked once.

“Depends who’s asking.”

Sam smiled. Just a little.

“Captain America.”

Harry’s jaw twitched. “That doesn’t mean what it used to.”

“Maybe not,” Sam replied. “But I’m trying to make it mean something better.”

There was a pause. A weight to it.

Then—
“Peter’s in the lab,” Sam said. “He didn’t want to wake you.”

Harry didn’t respond.

Not at first.

Then:

“He never does.”

——-

The lights in the lab glowed a soft blue. The space felt alive now—humming, like it had finally exhaled after being dormant too long.

Peter stood at the center console, sleeves bunched around his wrists, hair a mess, fingers moving in practiced patterns he barely understood. His eyes flicked across the new interface, too focused to blink.

In front of him—humming with light and confidence and presence—stood a hologram.

Tony Stark.

Not glitching this time. Not flickering.

Fully stabilized.

Mostly.

“So let me get this straight,” Tony was saying, arms crossed, pacing lazily inside the projection grid. “You found an unlabeled Stark-coded drive that looked suspiciously arc-reactor-shaped, plugged it into a hidden terminal you weren’t cleared for, and just… happened to finish a locked prototype I never got around to finalizing.”

Peter coughed into his sleeve. “…Yes.”

Tony gave him a look. “You are either the luckiest idiot alive or terrifyingly good at grief-motivated engineering.”

“Bit of both.”

“Well, congratulations. You’ve officially inherited the ghost of a billionaire genius with unresolved control issues.”

Peter smiled, just barely.

Then the door creaked open.

Harry stepped in, barefoot and hoodie-rumpled, blinking into the blue-lit room like he was trying to adjust to another world.

His eyes landed on the hologram.

He froze.

Tony’s gaze snapped to him instantly—mid-conversation, like his programming had been waiting for the signal.

“Well, look who crawled out of a Russian fever dream.”

Harry’s eyebrows lifted, slowly.
Peter stiffened, halfway between mortified and amused.

Tony (to Peter, dryly):
“You didn’t tell me the prototype walked.”

Harry blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Nothing. Just glad you’re not a hallucination.” Tony tilted his head. “Or dead. You’ve got the ‘I’ve survived multiple black-ops programs and don’t sleep anymore’ aesthetic. It’s bold.”

Peter shot Tony a look.
“Could you not?”

“What? I’m just saying, if I had a nickel for every repressed supersoldier who walked into my lab, I’d still be dead—but richer in spirit.”

Harry crossed his arms.

“You’re not real.”

Tony smirked.
“Neither are half the people running countries. Doesn’t stop them from making things worse.”

Peter muttered, “He’s been like this for twenty minutes.”

“I’m self-sustaining and emotionally consistent,” Tony replied proudly. “You’re welcome.”

Harry finally stepped closer. Still cautious. Still unsure.

“You knew me.”

Tony nodded once.

“Stark tech logs everything. I built this system to recognize more than faces. Your file pinged two seconds after you walked in.”

A beat.

“Also,” he added, eyes narrowing, “you and Peter share one brain cell and a bunk. It wasn’t hard to guess.”

Peter nearly choked.
Harry blinked like he couldn’t tell if he was being insulted or… seen.

Before Harry could counter, Tony began to continue his monologue. Of course he was. He’s Tony Stark, AI or not.

“…and for the record, I’m not judging your taste in hoodie-clad trauma cases—he’s objectively hot—but maybe don’t keep building secret labs in random closets, Parker. Makes you look guilty.”

Peter groaned. “You’re not even alive, and you still know how to make it worse.”

Harry was still staring at him. Less frozen now. More curious. One eyebrow twitching upward, like he couldn’t quite believe this was the infamous Tony Stark. Or maybe like he could.

Then came the voice from the doorway:

“Hate to break up the snark-fest, but I figured someone should tell you there’s coffee.”

They turned.

Sam Wilson leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. He looked tired, like he hadn’t slept more than a couple hours, but alert in the way soldiers always are—ready for the next thing, even if they hate it.

Peter blinked.

“How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to know your dead mentor’s AI is a narcissist,” Sam said dryly, stepping inside.

Tony beamed. “A self-aware one.”

“And your boyfriend has a terrifying death glare,” Sam added, nodding toward Harry. “But I’m guessing that’s not new.”

Harry didn’t react much—just tilted his head slightly, eyes tracking Sam like he was still deciding what kind of man stood in front of him.

“We’ve met,” he said simply.

Sam raised an eyebrow. “We have?”

Harry’s mouth tugged in something that might’ve been a smile.

“I was someone else.”

Sam didn’t ask. Just gave a tight nod. That soldier-to-soldier understanding.

Tony clapped his hands. “This is adorable, but can we please acknowledge that your safehouse got doxxed by a flying camera crew and someone should probably explain what the hell we’re planning next?”

Peter looked to Sam.

Harry looked to Peter.

Sam looked at the console, then back at them both.

And just like that, the weight returned.

——

- STARK SAFEHOUSE – COMMON AREA – SHORTLY AFTER -

The kitchen smelled faintly of burnt coffee and cold air.
The windows were shut, but the tension leaked in anyway.

Yelena sat cross-legged on a bench, sipping from a chipped mug like it was the only thing holding her together. Melina leaned against the far wall, arms crossed. Quiet. Calculating.
Alexei, somehow already eating, had a plate balanced on his knee and was stabbing a defenseless slice of toast with entirely too much force.

Bucky stood by the window. Still. Watchful.
He hadn’t sat since they’d arrived.

Peter hovered near the table, hands still ink-smudged from the lab.
Harry stood just behind him—close, quiet, unreadable again now that more people were in the room.

Sam entered last, coffee in one hand, shield slung against his back.
The room shifted just slightly around him—like it always did when someone walked in who mattered.

“Alright,” he said. “Let’s start with what we know.”

Peter stepped forward.
Voice steady. Eyes flickering between them all.

“Oscorp has them. Gwen and MJ. The surveillance data confirmed it. The Daily Bugle just ran a segment implying I kidnapped Norman’s daughter.”

Alexei grunted. “Which one? The one he disowned or the one he made up?”

Harry didn’t flinch.

Peter glanced at him. Harry met his eyes, gave a faint shake of his head.
Not now.

Yelena leaned forward. “They’re trying to flush you out. All of us. Keep us moving. Tired. Rattled.”

“It’s working,” Bucky muttered.

Melina finally spoke.
“They won’t stop at misinformation. If they know we’ve relocated, they’ll move faster. Oscorp isn’t working alone.”

Peter nodded. “Hydra remnants. We’ve seen the tech signatures. Connors is involved too—there’s something in the serum lines.”

“He’s not acting alone,” Harry added, voice low. “He’s not even acting like himself.”

A pause.

Tony’s voice buzzed softly from the console in the corner.
“You’ve got about a week before the next coordinated strike, give or take. Less if Norman’s been testing control systems on human subjects.”

Silence fell over the room.

Then Sam set down his mug.

“Then we take the time we have and use it. We regroup. We prep. We find them.”

“And if they move the girls again?” Peter asked.

Sam’s jaw tightened.
“Then we don’t chase shadows. We make them come to us.”

Yelena grinned, just faintly.

Alexei nodded. “We do the Russian thing. Set a trap.”

Melina gave him a look.
“It’s not a Russian thing. It’s a spy thing.”

Harry was still staring at the map.
His voice came quieter than the others, but with more certainty.

“If Norman thinks he’s ahead, we let him. We give him something to watch. Something he wants to chase.”

Peter blinked.
“Like what?”

Harry looked up.

And for a second, he wasn’t the quiet boy in the hoodie anymore.

He was the weapon they’d tried to forge—and failed to break.

“Me.”

Chapter 24: Heart of Glass, Walls of Steel

- OSCORP – EXECUTIVE ATRIUM – NIGHT -

The glass doors slid open with a hiss.

Inside, the lobby gleamed. Marble. Steel. Stark lighting designed to intimidate, not welcome. The kind of architecture that said you’re being watched, even when the cameras weren’t obvious.

Harry Osborn walked in like he’d never left.

Pressed black suit. Subtle earpiece. No hesitation in his step. No fear in his eyes.
Only precision.
Only control.

The receptionist glanced up, startled. She didn’t recognize him—not immediately. But the face was familiar. Etched in the foundation of the company. Her mouth opened.

“Sir, you—”

Harry didn’t slow.

“Tell my father I’m home.”

He didn’t wait for permission. Just walked past security like the building owed him.

Going straight towards the elevator.

Because once—it did.

⸻

The elevator opened with a soft chime.

Normans office door was ajar. Small light shining into the long hallway. It had something haunting about it. It ,ade him feel small again. Weak. And without stepping outside it came -

“Harriett.”

The name landed like a slap.

Harry didn’t flinch.

Norman stepped into view, hands behind his back.
Smile like a blade.
Eyes glittering with something sharp and unreadable.

“Well,” he said. “This is unexpected.”

Harry stepped out of the elevator.
Stood tall.

Didn’t blink.

“I’ve had time to think.”

Norman raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“You were right.”
A pause. Just long enough to sting.
“The world doesn’t protect people like us. So why should we protect it?”

Norman smiled slowly. Not warmth—recognition.

“What changed your mind?”

“Survival.” Harry’s voice was flat. “And opportunity.”

Another pause.

Then—Norman gestured toward the office.

“Come in. Let’s talk like family.”

The door slid shut behind them.

Harry stood at the edge of the glass-walled office—high above the city, wrapped in cold light. The skyline stretched behind Norman’s silhouette like a painting. Like power.

Norman turned slowly. His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

Didn’t speak.

Norman stepped forward, hands behind his back like a general addressing a soldier who’d come crawling home.

“I have to admit—I wasn’t sure you’d make it back. But I’m glad you’ve come to your senses.”

Harry’s jaw tensed, just for a second.

He didn’t correct him.

Not yet.

“I came back to work,” he said evenly. “If your offer’s still open.”

Norman studied him.

“Of course it is. It always was. You’re my daughter.”
A pause. Calculated.
“No matter what you’ve let them convince you of.”

Harry’s eyes stayed steady. Unblinking.

“I’m here because I’m useful,” he replied. “Don’t confuse that with sentiment.”

Norman chuckled softly.
“You sound just like me.”

Harry stepped closer. Slowly.
Suit crisp. Hands still. Ice beneath the skin.

“That’s the point.”

A silence stretched between them—thick, brittle.

Then Norman gestured toward the table.

“We have so much to discuss. The girls, for one. I assume you’d like to oversee their situation personally?”

Harry didn’t move.

But something in his chest twisted.

He nodded once.

“Of course.”

Norman smiled.

“Good girl.”

This time, Harry blinked.

Just once.

Then said nothing.

Let him believe it.
Let him build the illusion.

The tighter he holds it—
—the worse it’ll hurt when it breaks.

⸻

- SURVEILLANCE MONITOR ROOM – SIMULTANEOUS -

The team watched the feed in silence.

A grainy angle.
Harry’s back straight, movements calculated. Voice clear through the bug Bucky had planted in the lapel seam.

Peter sat hunched forward, elbows on knees, eyes locked on the screen like he was trying to see through it.

Yelena leaned against the wall.
Arms crossed. Jaw tight.

“He’s playing it too well,” she muttered.

Peter didn’t look away.
Didn’t blink.

“I know.”

But he didn’t sound sure.

———

- OSCORP – CONTAINMENT WING – LATER -

The light was artificial. Constant. Oppressive.

MJ sat on the edge of her cot, fingers curled around a cup of stale water. Gwen paced near the far wall, footsteps silent, her body a bundle of nerves wrapped in muscle memory.

The glass wall buzzed.

Then shifted—transparent from one side only.

Footsteps approached.

They both turned.

And froze.

Harry stood on the other side.

Dressed in black. Collared. Clean. Every trace of softness scrubbed out of him. His posture was perfect. His expression unreadable.

MJ stood slowly. “Harry…?”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t blink.

He lifted a tablet. Tapped something. The glass flickered, but didn’t open.

Gwen stepped forward, jaw tight. “What are you doing?”

Harry finally met her eyes.

And said—flatly, coolly:
“Assessing security.”

The voice didn’t sound like his.

It was too smooth. Too professional.

Too distant.

Gwen’s chest caved slightly. She shook her head. “No. No, this isn’t you. You’re—this is an act, right? Tell me it’s an act.”

MJ’s voice was smaller. “Harry, please.”

Nothing in him moved.

“You’re being held for information theft,” he said coldly. “Pending reclassification.”

Gwen stepped up to the glass. Hands pressed flat.

“Look me in the eyes and tell me you’re not still in there.”

Harry didn’t.

He turned.

Walked away.

The tablet clicked off.

And the silence he left behind was deafening.

——

- OSCORP – RESIDENTIAL QUARTERS – NIGHT -

The door slid shut behind him.

Harry stood in the middle of the room. His old room.
Though it didn’t feel like it anymore.

The nameplate on the wall read Mary Jane Osborn.

The name that was never really his—was gone.
Deleted.
Erased like a smudge Norman had wiped clean.

Something Harry had once wanted.
But not like this.

He didn’t know if that stung more than he expected…
Or exactly as much.

He walked in slowly. The air smelled faintly of lavender and sterilization.
The kind of cleanliness that felt like absence.
Like someone else had been given permission to exist in the space where he wasn’t allowed to.

He caught sight of himself in the mirror.

Stopped.

The lighting was clinical.
Harsh.
Honest.

And the man staring back at him looked too much like a lie.

The cut of the suit fit.
Too well.

The angles of his face were sharp now. Controlled.
The kind of control Norman always admired.
The kind of look that passed in every room—if you didn’t look too closely.

Harry tugged the collar higher.
It scratched at his throat.

He hated how well he played the part.
How easily the old voice came back.
How quickly he slipped into the role—the cold command, the stillness, the precise detachment.

The monster they created.

He hated that it felt like muscle memory.

That it made him feel… useful.

He sat on the edge of the bed.

His hands were steady.
That was worse.

“I’m not your daughter,” he whispered to the floor.

He gazed back into the mirror.
Blue eyes storming, locked on his own reflection like a threat.

“And I’m not your son,” he added quietly.
Not to reject himself—
But to reclaim something deeper.

The mirror didn’t respond.

But out of nowhere, the shape of him still didn’t look right.
Too soft in the wrong places.
Too tight in the chest.

His body had always felt like a battleground.

And Norman—
Norman had never seen a soldier.

Just a failure.

And now here he was, back in the enemy’s uniform.
Pretending.
Hiding.
Masking.

Playing pretend too well.

“God,” he muttered, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes,
What if this is still who I am?
What if this is all I’ll ever be?

A long, slow breath.

“What if he made something I can’t undo?”

The quiet swallowed the question.

But it stayed with him anyway.

Chapter 25: Buried Alive

- STARK SAFEHOUSE – LIVING ROOM – EARLY MORNING -

Peter sat at the edge of the armchair, hunched forward, hoodie sleeves bunched in his fists. He hadn’t slept. Not really.

The sun was bleeding in slowly through the shutters, turning the old cabin light gold and dust-streaked.

He stared at the bug feed display—Harry’s voice faint, crackling slightly over the transmission. Controlled. Cold.

Too cold.

Yelena walked in carrying a mug. She took one look at Peter’s face and didn’t bother asking.

“He’s holding up,” she said quietly.
“That’s what worries me,” Peter replied.

There was a pause.

Then—

INT. STARK SAFEHOUSE – BRIEFING ROOM – FLASHBACK – NIGHT BEFORE

The entire team had gathered around the table—Sam standing beside the projection map, Bucky on his feet near the door, arms crossed. Yelena leaning over the layout of Oscorp’s sublevels. Alexei just finishing off the last slice of something that used to be pizza.

Harry sat quietly in the corner. Focused. But not entirely present.

Sam pointed to a cluster of blueprints.

“You’ll have a window—thirty-six hours maximum. After that, Norman will shift MJ and Gwen to another facility, or worse. We move before then.”

Bucky added, flatly: “We’ll create a breach from the East—Harry won’t be informed when or where. Less he knows, the better he can lie.”

Melina slid a small transmitter across the table toward Harry.
“You’ll signal when they move MJ or when you see Norman’s access codes in use. That’s when we go.”

Harry didn’t speak.

He just nodded.

“This okay?” Peter had asked then, eyes searching his.

Harry’s voice had been even. Calm.

“You trust me with less, you get more out of me.”

Yelena had looked at him, eyes shadowed.
“Снежный барс охотится в тени.”
(The snow leopard hunts in the shadows.)

Harry didn’t look up.

He just nodded.

——

The door clicked softly behind them.

Harry stood near the bed, hands half-tucked in his sleeves. The hoodie hung off one shoulder. His posture was straighter than usual—like he was already putting the armor back on.

Peter didn’t move at first.
He just looked at him.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Harry said quietly.

“I know,” Peter replied, stepping toward him.
Then, softer: “But I want to.”

He moved behind him, arms curling around Harry’s waist.
Gentle. Steady. Holding without pressure.

The air between them was different now.
Heavier. Sharper. Fragile.

Peter’s fingers found Harry’s wrist. Rubbed over the skin slowly.
He didn’t pull away.

“Promise me you won’t go too deep,” Peter murmured, voice low.

Harry’s jaw shifted. A beat of silence.

“I don’t get to decide how deep it goes, Pete.”
“That’s the point.”

Peter turned him gently, hands brushing over his arms.
He searched Harry’s face like he was trying to memorize it.
Every line. Every piece.

“Then promise me you’ll come back.”
(to me)

Harry hesitated.

Then, soft as breath:

“I promise I’ll try.”

Peter stepped in.

Their foreheads met. Not a kiss. Not yet. Just contact.

Breath to breath.
Closeness without collapse.

Harry leaned into it like he was afraid to want more.

“You’re the only thing that feels real in all this,” he whispered.

Peter stroked his jaw with his thumb.
Anchoring.

“Good. Then don’t forget.”

Their fingers stayed linked at the wrists as they stood in silence.

And then—

Peter whispered:

“If something goes wrong—if they push too far, if you start to forget who you are…”

Harry’s breath caught.

Peter pulled back just enough to meet his eyes.

“I’ll say your name. The way only I do.”

Harry didn’t speak.

Peter gave a small, trembling smile:

“Har.”
A beat.
“You’re my Harry.”

And something in Harry’s face cracked.
Not shattered—but enough to let the real one show through.

Then—without a word—he leaned in and pressed a kiss to Peter’s cheek.

Not rushed. Not uncertain.

Steady.
Real.

His voice came low, just near Peter’s jaw:

“If you say it like that…”
“I’ll know it’s time to come home.”

Peter exhaled. Quiet. Shaky.

And then—

Harry stepped back.

And let go.

—-

– LIVING ROOM – EARLY MORNING – BACK TO PRESENT -

Peter hadn’t moved in over an hour.

The bug feed blinked quietly on the coffee table, casting pale light across his face. Harry’s voice crackled through the speaker—flat, professional, too perfectly distant.

“You’re being held for information theft. Pending reclassification.”

It didn’t even sound like him anymore.

Yelena set a mug down beside Peter’s elbow and sat without a word. Her expression was still. Calculated. But her eyes lingered on the screen like it hurt to look too long.

Peter leaned forward, hands curled into fists.

He said he’d try.
He kissed his cheek.
He promised.

So why did it feel like he’d already lost him?

Harry’s voice echoed again—measured, emotionless, sterile:

“Comply with protocol, and your status may remain unchanged.”

Peter shut his eyes.

All he could hear beneath the audio was the quiet “Har” he’d whispered against Harry’s skin. The way Harry had held onto it. Said it back like it meant something.

You’re my Harry.

But this—this voice on the feed?
It wasn’t his Harry.

It was someone Norman could control.

“He’s playing a part,” Yelena said gently.
“He’s surviving.”

Peter shook his head slowly.
Not in disagreement—just disbelief.

“What if it’s too easy for him to play?”

Yelena didn’t answer.

Because she’d thought the same.

Peter stared at the grainy footage.
Harry’s back to the camera. Suit perfect. Shoulders stiff.

He looked like someone who belonged there.

“I should’ve said more,” Peter murmured.
“I should’ve made him stay.”

“He wouldn’t have,” Yelena said.

“I know.”
He swallowed hard.

“But he promised me. And now he sounds like a stranger.”

Silence.

Then Yelena reached over and nudged the mug toward him.

“He’s not gone, Peter.”
“He just buried himself to survive.”

Peter nodded, eyes still locked on the feed.

But he didn’t speak again.

Didn’t trust his voice.

Because deep down—
He wasn’t afraid Harry had forgotten him.

He was afraid Harry had forgotten himself.

——

- OSCORP – SUBLEVEL HALLWAY -

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead—too bright, too sterile. The kind of light that made everything feel exposed.

Harry walked with measured steps, clipboard in hand, movements precise. Everything about him said control. Efficiency. Belonging.

He was halfway to the containment wing when a shadow stepped out from a side corridor.

Dr. Curt Connors.

Still in the lab coat. Still limping. But slower now. He looked… worn. Like something inside him had been wound too tightly and started to fray.

They stopped. Just for a breath.

Not long enough to be noticed.
But long enough to mean something.

“You’re settling in fast,” Connors said, voice low. Brittle.

Harry didn’t blink.

“Is that a problem?”

Connors studied him—just a moment too long.

“Only if you forget which side you started on.”

Harry’s spine didn’t move, but something in his jaw tightened.

“I know what I’m doing.”

A pause. The hallway felt colder suddenly.

Connors looked like he wanted to say more.
Instead, his gaze flicked up—toward the ceiling. Toward the cameras.
Then back to Harry.

His voice dropped even lower. Barely a whisper:

“They’re watching you closer than you think.”

Harry stayed still.

Measured. Sharp.

Connors added, gently—like a warning meant for himself as much as anyone:

“I know what I’m talking about.”

Their eyes locked for a second longer.

Something passed between them.

Recognition. Regret.

Harry nodded once. Subtle. Professional.

Then walked past without another word.

The hallway swallowed the sound of his footsteps.

And Connors just stood there.

Still.
Breathing like it hurt.

And for Harry—for a breath, no more—something cracked open.

That voice.
That warning.

It echoed.

“I know what I’m talking about.”

And it hit him.

A moment of clarity.
Uninvited. Sharp. Real.

The kind that makes you want to turn back.

But it was gone almost as quickly as it came.

Smothered by silence.
Buried beneath the role.

And before he reached the next corridor—
His mind had slipped again.

Back into the void.

Where it was easier to be what they made him.

——

- OSCORP – CONTAINMENT CELL – LATER -

The lights didn’t dim in Oscorp.

That was by design.

MJ sat cross-legged on the floor, back against the glass wall. Her eyes were red. Not from crying—just tired. Furious. Dry. Gwen paced slowly near the far end, counting her steps for the third time.

Twenty-two across.

Sixteen from corner to bench.

It didn’t change.

“He’s not coming,” MJ said eventually. Her voice was hoarse. Detached.

Gwen paused. Turned.

“You don’t believe that.”

MJ looked up.

“Don’t I?”
A beat.
“We saw the footage. You saw him.”

Gwen didn’t answer.

Not right away.

Because yeah—she had seen him.
The pressed suit. The deadpan eyes. The clipped voice that barely resembled the boy who once smuggled stolen pizza slices into a school lab and laughed so hard he nearly choked.

The Harry they knew looked… gone.

“He kissed Peter goodbye,” Gwen said quietly.
“Before he left.”

MJ didn’t move.
Just clenched her jaw.

“So what?”

“So that means he hasn’t let go yet.”

MJ stood.

Paced once. Twice. Her hands ran through her hair like she wanted to pull the doubt out by force.

“He looked at me like I was data, Gwen.”
“Not a person. Not even a threat. Just… noise.”

Gwen swallowed hard.

“That’s not him.”

“No. But it’s convincing.”

They stood in silence for a beat. The air inside the cell felt thinner today. Not from gas. Not from toxins. Just from the weight of not knowing.

Gwen finally said, low:

“Then we hold out. Until he proves us wrong. Or right.”

MJ stared at her.

“And if he doesn’t?”

The question lingered.

But Gwen didn’t answer.

She just sat down beside her again, shoulder to shoulder. Close. Real.

And they waited.

——-

INT. OSCORP – PRIVATE LAB – NIGHT

The lights were too warm here. Golden. Almost gentle.

It was meant to feel safe. It didn’t.

Harry stood at the center of the room, hands folded behind his back, posture perfect. Still. Watching. Waiting.

Norman circled him slowly.

Not like a father.
Not like a scientist.
Like a collector inspecting a long-lost artifact.

“You’ve changed,” he murmured.
His hand brushed Harry’s shoulder.
“More than I ever expected.”

Harry didn’t move.

“You’ve grown into her frame. Not just her face—your mother’s—but her posture, too. The way she used to hold herself when she didn’t want me to see her anger.”

His hand drifted lower, along Harry’s upper arm.

“There’s strength in you now. Real strength. Not the kind that comes in needles or vials. The kind we bred into you.”

Harry stared forward. Blank. Composed.
The perfect creation.

Norman stepped closer.

“My creation,” he said softly, voice thick with false pride.
“But what you let them do to your body, Harriett… it’s not right.”

A beat. No reaction.

Norman’s tone shifted, more pointed—almost coaxing:

“Isn’t it, love?”

Harry didn’t blink.
Didn’t breathe.

Dissociation, pure and full.

So Norman raised his voice, sharp and sudden:

“Isn’t it, Harry?”

Still no answer.

But something cracked behind Harry’s eyes.

And then—like a reflex, like a switch—he straightened.
Breath shallow. Shoulders pulled back.

His expression went dead calm.

The Orphan had arrived.

Norman didn’t even notice the shift. He smiled faintly, almost satisfied.

He ran a slow hand across Harry’s shoulder again, like affection—
but it wasn’t.

It was control.

It was ownership.

And Harry let it happen.

Because that version of him—the real one—had already been pulled under.

Chapter 26: The Winter in Him

- STARK SAFEHOUSE – LAB MONITORING ROOM – SAME NIGHT -

The room was dark. Just the glow of the screen.

Peter stood frozen in front of the monitor, fists clenched at his sides, the air around him tight like it couldn’t quite fill his lungs.

Harry was on the screen.

Still. Silent.
Letting Norman touch his shoulder.

Norman’s voice, distorted slightly by the audio filter, came through anyway—sharp enough to cut:

“But what you let them do to your body, Harriett… it’s not right, is it?”

Peter’s breath caught.

He leaned in unconsciously, eyes wide. Like if he looked hard enough, he could pull Harry back through the screen.

Harry didn’t flinch.

Didn’t move.

Then—Norman’s voice, rising:

“Isn’t it, Harry?”

And Peter—watching Harry’s face go still, watching his posture change—he knew that look.

“No,” he whispered.
“No, no, no—he’s folding.”

Beside him, Yelena’s arms were crossed tightly over her chest.
Her face was set in stone.

“He’s slipping,” she said, carefully.

Peter’s voice cracked:

“I was supposed to bring him back.”

Yelena looked over.
Peter wasn’t talking to her.

“I promised I’d say his name,” he murmured.
“I told him… ‘Har.’ I told him that would be the way back.”

Onscreen, Harry’s expression didn’t change.
But he was gone. He’d buried himself too deep.

Peter took a half-step back from the monitor, blinking hard.

“I should’ve said it.”
“I should’ve pulled him out before he sank this far.”

Yelena moved closer.
Not touching—just near. Present.

Peter nodded once.
Jaw clenched. Shoulders set.

Then, to no one in particular:

“The shift rotation for drivers into the facility changes every Sunday. Six p.m. sharp.”

A pause.

Then we move Sunday,” Sam said, stepping in from the doorway.
Steady. Certain.

Peter didn’t look away from the screen.

His voice was barely above a whisper:

“One week, Har.”
“Please. Stay.”

A beat.

“For me.”
“For your new family.”
“But most of all—stay for yourself.”

Because if they waited any longer—
There wouldn’t be anything left of his Harry to save.

——

- STARK SAFEHOUSE – GARAGE – NIGHT -

The wind murmured against the siding.

Bucky sat alone on an overturned crate, elbows braced on his knees, the chill of the concrete floor creeping into his boots. The van loomed behind him—still streaked with forest dirt, the scars of last-minute escape clinging to its rusted frame.

A tablet rested nearby on the workbench.
The footage was paused.

Harry stood on the screen.
Polished. Empty-eyed. Controlled.

Bucky didn’t need to press play again.

He already knew what came next.

He leaned forward slightly, hands clasped, thumb running over the faint scar on the inside of his wrist—a mark the world had mostly forgotten, but he hadn’t. Not really.

He knew that look in Harry’s eyes.
The hollow stillness.
The stillness you train into yourself.

His voice was low. Just for the quiet.

“He’s slipping.”

It wasn’t judgment.

It was recognition.

He let the silence stretch. Let the thought breathe. Then:

“I almost didn’t come back either.”

His gaze dropped. His fingers twitched like they remembered metal. Commands. Ghosts.

“Steve pulled me out.”

A breath. Not steady. Not broken.

“He told me I wasn’t a weapon.”
“Told me I was his friend.”

He looked back at the frozen image of Harry—so sharp, so unlike the boy Peter described, the boy Bucky had started to see underneath the layers.

“Someone has to say it to him.”
“Before he forgets how to believe it.”

He didn’t say the rest.

That he wished someone had said it sooner.
That maybe if he’d spoken sooner, Steve would’ve stayed.
That maybe—if things had been different—he wouldn’t be here, watching another boy become something someone else designed.

He looked down again.

And for just a moment, the ache crept through.

Not for what he lost.
But for what he saw in them.

Harry and Peter.
What he once had.
And couldn’t keep.

He stayed there. Still.

With memory.
With ghosts.
And with the smallest flicker of hope
that this time, love would be louder than programming.

——-

- STARK SAFEHOUSE – UNDERGROUND LAB – NIGHT-

The lab hummed quietly. Stark-blue light flickered off the interface like it knew it wasn’t supposed to be on this late, but wouldn’t stop anyway.

Peter stood hunched at the console, hair a mess, fingers moving with instinct rather than intention. He wore a hoodie that wasn’t his.

It was Harry’s.

The sleeves bunched at his wrists. The scent still clung—faintly warm, like cotton and old spice and something that settled behind Peter’s ribs and stayed there.

The projection flickered to life in front of him.

Tony Stark. Fully formed. Calm. Judging.

“Well, well. Hoodie theft. Cute.”
Tony gestured at Peter’s chest.
“Is this what we’re doing now? Emo comfort-core in my lab?”

Peter didn’t look up right away. His fingers danced over the interface, eyes scanning, jaw tight.

“He left it,” Peter muttered.

Tony tilted his head.

“You mean you stole it like a grieving Victorian widow.”
A beat.
“Which, I’ll be honest, kind of tracks.”

Peter exhaled—half a breath, half a laugh.
Then softer:

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“That’s cool. I didn’t ask.”
Tony leaned back, arms folded behind his head.
“But your eyes look like they haven’t slept in three days and you’re wearing your maybe-boyfriend’s hoodie like a weighted blanket, so yeah—I noticed.”

Peter finally looked up. Tired. Worn. But trying.

“He’s slipping, Tony.”

The projection didn’t glitch. Didn’t crack a joke.

It just quieted.

“Norman?”

Peter nodded.
“I saw the footage. He let him touch him. Misgender him. Didn’t flinch. He just stood there like—like it didn’t even matter.”

A beat. His voice fell.
“Like he didn’t matter.”

Tony didn’t answer right away.

Then—

“You ever been underwater?”
He didn’t wait for a response.
“Like really under—low oxygen, no direction, ears ringing.”

Peter frowned.
“Yeah.”

“That’s what this is, kid.”
“He’s not gone. He’s drowning.”

Peter blinked. The words hit harder than they should’ve.

Tony stepped forward—more real than any ghost had the right to be.

“And the thing about drowning is—if someone doesn’t reach in fast enough, the part that comes back isn’t always whole.”

Peter didn’t speak.

Didn’t trust himself to.

He just nodded. Slowly. Like if he moved too fast, something would crack.

Then, softer than he meant to say it—

“Thanks, Dad.”

The words dropped like a pebble into water.

Peter froze.

His eyes went wide. His mouth opened before his brain caught up.

“I didn’t—I mean, I wasn’t trying to—God, that sounded weird.”
“I know you’re not actually—”
He ran a hand through his hair, voice picking up speed.
“It just kind of came out, and I’ve barely slept, and you’re—you, and Harry’s gone, and I—”

Tony didn’t flinch.

Didn’t smirk.

He just watched him. Quiet. Knowing.

Then, simply:

“Kid. It’s fine.”
A pause.
“When I lost you during the Blip… it felt like I lost my own.”

Peter blinked hard.

Tony gave a lopsided shrug, softer than usual.

“I get it.”

Peter stared at him.

Then finally—finally—let himself breathe.

He didn’t apologize again.

Because Tony didn’t need him to.

———

- OSCORP – PRIVATE QUARTERS – NIGHT -

The room was silent.

Too silent.

Harry stood near the mirror, fingers curled tight against his sides. The lights overhead buzzed faintly, casting too-bright reflections across his face—clean lines, cold suit, everything in place.

On the outside.

He adjusted the collar mechanically. Smoothed the fabric. Tucked the hoodie string into his sleeve like it didn’t matter.

But it did.

He stared at the mirror. Eyes stormy.
Unblinking.

He didn’t look angry. Or scared.
He looked tired.

Like holding up the shape of who he wasn’t was finally starting to wear through skin.

He sat down slowly on the edge of the bed, hands folded in his lap. His breathing was steady, rehearsed. But his thumb rubbed absently over the inside of his wrist—over a place where the skin felt too thin.

An old scar. Faint. Faded.

But remembered.

The room was sterile. Clinical. Safe, on paper.

Except for the thoughts.

He stood again. Paced once.

Then back to the mirror.

He rolled up his sleeve without thinking.

Not fast. Not frantic.

Just familiar.

He pressed two fingers to the scar. His hand lingered.

Not to feel pain.

Just to remember he was still in there.

“Don’t,” he whispered. To no one.
To himself.

A beat passed.

Then another.

He lowered his arm.

Pressed his forehead to the mirror.

And stayed there.

“You’re Harry,” he breathed.
“Not their weapon. Not her. Not his.”

But the reflection didn’t answer.

It just stared back—same shape, same scars, same silence.

And still… not quite right.

Chapter 27: Underwater, Never Drowned

Notes:

TW: attempted self harm/ thoughts of doing so

Stay save. You’ve got this. Stay!!

- STARK SAFEHOUSE – BRIEFING ROOM – NIGHT -

The room was low-lit, the map of Oscorp’s lower levels glowing faintly across the tabletop. Everyone was gathered—Sam, Bucky, Yelena, Melina, Alexei, and Peter—surrounded by mismatched chairs and silent tension.

Sam stood at the front, sleeves rolled up. Calm, focused.

“We move Sunday at 1800. Supply shift rotation. We’ll pose as the incoming drivers—two vans. Bucky takes point.”

Bucky nodded once.

“We’ll have uniforms, IDs, the route. Once we’re in, minimal noise, minimal contact.”

Melina scrolled through a tablet on the table.
“The girls are scheduled for internal transfer at 1200 Monday. If we miss that window, they’ll disappear again.”

Yelena leaned forward.
“We’ll need the inside signal. That’s where Harry comes in.”

A pause.

Sam’s tone shifted, gentler but firmer.

“If he’s still on our side.”

Peter didn’t lift his head at first.

Then—

“He is.”

Sam exchanged a look with Yelena.

“He’s playing a part. But we’ve seen what Norman can do to people like him. What he’s already done.”

Peter’s fingers curled around the edge of the table.
“He promised he’d try.”

Yelena—soft, but honest.
“And we believe he meant it.”
“But Peter… trying might not be enough.”

The silence that followed was different.

It hurt.

Peter blinked down at the map, trying to breathe evenly.

Then, quietly:

“He said he’d call.”

Everyone looked up.

Peter’s voice was steady—but it shook at the edges.

“Back then. When he left. Europe. We said goodbye, and he promised he’d try to keep in touch. He said he’d call.”

A beat.

“But he never did.”

His jaw clenched.

“Because he was never in Europe. I waited. I waited so long.”

He looked up finally, eyes glassy, defiant.

“Norman took that chance. Took him from me then. And now I’m watching it happen again.”

Another breath—sharper this time.

“But not this time. This time, I’ll fight for him. I’ll bring him home myself if I have to.”

No one said a word.

Even Bucky lowered his gaze.

Sam just nodded, quiet.

“Then we move.”

———

- OSCORP – EXECUTIVE OFFICE – NIGHT -

Norman stands by the window, perfectly composed, hands folded behind his back. The skyline glows behind him—manicured chaos.

Harry enters silently, posture crisp, suit impeccable.

Norman doesn’t turn right away.
When he speaks, it’s with a faint, calculated hum of satisfaction.

“You’ve adapted well.”

Harry says nothing.

“You remember how to listen. How to stand. How to disappear when needed. That’s good.”

Still, no answer.

Finally, Norman turns.

“Let’s test your loyalty.”

He steps forward—too close.
“There’s a vault on Sublevel 6. One of the Hydra files was flagged—someone tried to erase it. I want it retrieved. Personally. Quietly.”

A pause.

“And if the girls are still breathing, they may be useful. You’ll be the one to move them.”

That lands hard.

Harry blinks. Not even flinching.
Just absorbing.

“Of course.”

But behind the eyes—he’s drifting again. Drowning in the old voice. The one they built in him.

Norman watches.
“You understand why it has to be you.”

Harry nods.

“Yes, sir.”

Norman smiles faintly. Then touches Harry’s shoulder.

“I knew my daughter would come home eventually.”

Harry doesn’t react.

Not a twitch.

Just silence.

But his fingers—just out of sight—curl into a fist.

——-

– CONTAINMENT TRANSFER BAY – NIGHT -

Buzzing lights. Polished floors. Too clean to feel real.

MJ sits with her knees pulled up, arms around them. Gwen stands nearby, pacing—her expression tight, tired, but still sharp.

The door opens.

Harry steps inside.

They freeze.

He looks different.

Sleek suit. Gloves. Cold, calculated posture. Eyes unreadable.

“You’re being transferred,” he says, voice flat.
“Stand.”

Gwen steps forward.
“Harry.”

He doesn’t respond.

“It’s us,” MJ adds, quietly. “You don’t have to pretend.”

Harry’s gaze shifts toward her—but not like it used to. No warmth. No pain. Just a flicker. Measured. Controlled.

“Move,” he says again.

Gwen’s eyes narrow.
“You’re really doing this? After everything?”

Harry doesn’t blink.

“Noncompliance will escalate your status.”

That sounds rehearsed.

Scripted.

MJ flinches.

“What did he do to you?”

No answer.

Harry taps something into the panel.

The restraints hiss open.

“Walk.”

He turns. Gwen doesn’t move.

“You don’t even look like you anymore,” she says, quiet. Bitter.

Harry pauses just one second too long before the door opens.

But he doesn’t look back.

And they follow.

Because what choice do they have?

——

The halls are quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence built to smother sound.

Harry walks a half-step ahead of them. Not too close. Not too far. Just enough to feel like distance is required.

MJ watches his posture. The way his fingers twitch—barely. How he doesn’t glance back once.

Gwen leans closer to her as they walk.

“That’s not him.”
Her voice is barely audible.

“You sure?”

“I know how he walks.”

MJ exhales.
“He’s holding himself like a weapon.”

Ahead, Harry taps a code into a side panel. Waits for the scanner. Doesn’t speak.

“Maybe he’s protecting us,” MJ says quietly.
“Or maybe he’s gone.”

They step into the next corridor.

“No,” Gwen mutters.
“Not gone. Just buried.”

MJ looks at her.

“That’s worse.”

They keep walking.

The door behind them hisses shut—cutting off the path back.

And Harry?

He never once turns around.

 

——

- OSCORP – HOLDING ROOM – LATER -

The room was smaller than the last one. No window. No visible cameras. Just matte gray walls and a bench built into the far side—like a waiting room designed by someone who hated people.

Harry stood near the door, tablet in hand, gloves still on. His back was straight, shoulders drawn tight, the picture of control. Too still to be natural.

MJ sat slowly on the bench. Her arms were crossed, but there was no fight in her posture—just exhaustion. Gwen remained standing, watching him. Studying him.

The silence stretched. Sharp around the edges.

“You don’t have to do this,” MJ said quietly.
Her voice was steady, even though her eyes weren’t.

Harry didn’t turn.

“Whatever he’s done to you… you’re still you.”

Gwen stepped forward a little.
“You remember us.”
A pause.
“I know you do.”

Still no reaction.

But his shoulders—just slightly—tensed.

Then he turned.

His expression was blank. Voice like glass.

“This conversation is over.”

He turned back to the wall panel, fingers tapping in new commands.

But as he moved, Gwen saw it.

The glove on his right hand shifted—just slightly—and the cuff of his sleeve lifted enough to expose the skin of his wrist.

A symbol.

Drawn in thin black ink.
Three quick lines. Small. Easy to miss.

But Gwen didn’t miss it.

She sucked in a quiet breath, eyes wide. Then nudged MJ gently with her elbow, nodding toward his arm.

MJ looked. Froze.

Then exhaled—just once. Slow. Shaken.

Peter’s web.

So small it could’ve been nothing.

So precise it could only mean everything.

“He’s still in there,” MJ whispered.
Barely audible. But real.

Harry didn’t turn. Didn’t speak.

But his fingers hovered over the keypad for just a second longer than they should

——

- STARK SAFEHOUSE – LAB – NIGHT -

The feed cut to black.

Peter didn’t move.

The air in the room felt too still—like it was holding its breath, waiting for something to shatter.

He stood in front of the terminal, fingers still hovering over the controls. The last frame was burned into his eyes: Harry turning away. Not even flinching. Not even looking back.

A pulse of static flickered across the screen. Then silence.

Peter swallowed.

His throat was dry. Tight. Like it didn’t know how to speak around grief anymore.

He pressed a hand to the desk. Then both hands.

Lowered his head.

“He drew it,” he whispered.

Yelena was standing behind him now, arms crossed, watching.
She’d seen it too.
The mark on his wrist.

“I saw it,” she said softly.

Peter exhaled through his nose. Shaky.
“That was me. That symbol. He used to draw it on my notebooks in school when he got bored. Back before—”
He stopped.

Before Norman.

Before the Red Room.

Before this.

“It’s still him,” he said.

But he didn’t sound convinced.

The screen still buzzed faintly. Empty now. Like even the tech couldn’t bear the weight of what it had shown.

“I told him to come back,” Peter murmured.
“He said he’d try.”

He didn’t sit. Couldn’t. His body buzzed too loud for stillness.

“What if it’s too easy for him?” he said suddenly, looking at Yelena now.
“To be this. To shut everything off.”

Yelena’s jaw tensed.
She didn’t answer right away.

Then—

“That’s why we move on Sunday.”
Her voice was quiet, but firm.
“Before he forgets why he ever wanted to come back.”

Peter’s hands clenched on the edge of the table. He nodded, once.

“He’s not gone,” he said.

But the way he said it—it was like he was trying to remind himself, not her.

Like he was fighting the echo of that same goodbye from years ago.

The one where Harry never called.

——

- STARK SAFEHOUSE – PETER’S ROOM – LATER THAT NIGHT -

The lights were low. The kind of quiet that pressed in from all sides.

Peter sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, fingers tangled in the worn fabric of Harry’s hoodie—still folded like it meant something. It smelled like static and old soap and a little bit like the cheap aftershave Harry swore he didn’t wear.

Peter held it to his chest like a lifeline.

He couldn’t stop replaying the footage. The way Harry hadn’t flinched. The way he’d spoken to MJ and Gwen like they were strangers. Like they were obstacles.

“I told you to come back,” he whispered to the fabric.
“You said you’d try.”

He didn’t cry. Not this time.

He just sat there, hoodie clenched in both fists, heart pounding too fast for sleep.

⸻

- STARK SAFEHOUSE – BRIEFING ROOM – NEXT MORNING -

Sunlight filtered in through slatted windows, cutting across the old table like a spotlight.

Sam stood at the head of it, arms braced on either side, eyes scanning the schematics.

“The shift changes every Sunday at 6 p.m.,” Peter said, stepping into the room, voice hoarse but clear.
“If we pose as a replacement delivery team, we can get in through the maintenance sub-entry. It’s unguarded for about seven minutes.”

Bucky nodded slowly.
“I can get us gear. Papers. The van.”

Yelena stepped forward, eyes sharp.
“He’ll be expecting something. But not from the inside.”

Peter looked up.

“He can’t know. About the plan. Not all of it.”

Sam’s voice was steady.
“He doesn’t. That’s why we made it without him.”

Peter’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t argue.

He just nodded.

“Sunday,” he said.
“We bring him home.”

Chapter 28: Shaded Red Glass, Bruised Soul

Notes:

TW - self harm, stay save <3

- OSCORP – PRIVATE QUARTERS – NIGHT -

The door clicked shut behind him.

Harry exhaled—long, slow, controlled.

He stepped into the room and paused. Stillness settled over him like a second skin. No surveillance in this chamber. No audience. No one to impress.

And still—he didn’t let himself breathe.

He peeled off the gloves with slow fingers, one by one, like they might crack if he moved too fast. He set them on the dresser. Then the blazer. Each motion folded into habit. Precision. Performance.

The silence was deafening.

He crossed to the small mirror above the sink. Looked at himself. Looked through himself.

The suit fit too well. The hair, parted perfectly. The posture—straight, jaw set, shoulders locked.

It looked like power.

It felt like a cage.

His fingers drifted to the collar of his shirt, pulling at it. It sat wrong against his throat. Like it knew. Like it remembered every time someone called him by the wrong name.

“You’re not her,” he whispered to the reflection.
The words didn’t echo. They just hung there.

He looked down at his wrist.

The ink was smudged.

The little web, once black and sharp, now a blur of gray across his skin.
His thumb traced it. Slowly. Like it might disappear if he touched it too long.

“I’m still here,” he said.
But it felt like a lie.

Then—

The chime.

A knock. Mechanical and soft. Not a question. A signal.

He stiffened.

Crossed the room.

Opened the door.

And there he was.

Norman Osborn.

Smiling like nothing had ever gone wrong.

“May I come in?”

Harry stepped aside, silent.

Norman walked in like he owned the space. Like he owned everything in it.

And maybe he did.

“You’ve been doing well,” Norman said, glancing around.
“Disciplined. Focused. Efficient.”

Harry stood still.

“But you haven’t said much.”

Norman turned to him, that smile softening.

“We should talk. About legacy. About family. About what comes next.”

Harry didn’t speak.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t flinch.

But inside—

The storm began to rise.

——

Norman moved through the room slowly, like he was remembering it. His hand brushed the edge of the dresser. Touched the mirror frame. Tapped the doorframe once with a knuckle.

“I had this room redone after you left,” he said casually.
“Figured I’d give her a space of her own. Something clean. Untouched.”

Harry didn’t respond.

Norman turned to face him.
“It still suits you.”

Silence.

“I know it’s been difficult,” Norman went on.
“Reintegration always is. But you’ve exceeded my expectations. You’re sharper now. More composed. This…” He gestured to Harry—his suit, his stance.
“This is who you were meant to be.”

Harry didn’t look up.

Norman stepped closer.

“You’re the closest thing I have left to her, you know.”

Harry’s fingers tightened at his sides.

“Your mother. So much of her in your eyes.”
His gaze dropped to Harry’s shoulders.
“And even with what you’ve done to your body, looking more like me than her, I still see her. I still see what we made.”

Harry didn’t move.

Not a twitch. Not a breath.

But something behind his eyes flickered.

Norman stepped closer again—too close.

“What Dreykov allowed to you to do out there…”
He reached out. Brushed a hand along Harry’s upper arm.
“That wasn’t correction. That was vandalism.”

Harry’s jaw clenched

“No”, he thought, “it was transition. And the only good thing that has happened ever since you let them take me.”

“You’re not just a weapon, Harriett. You’re not only a soldier. You’re also and most importantly a legacy. A legacy Mary Jane was supposed to take upon, but now …”

The name burned in the air between them.

Harry still didn’t speak.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

Just stared at the wall, like if he moved, he might crack wide open.

Norman’s hand lingered on his shoulder. A mockery of fatherly affection.

“You understand, don’t you? Why I had to take you back.”

Nothing.

Then—just barely audible:

“I was never yours to take.”

Norman smiled.

“That’s where you’re wrong.”

He patted Harry’s shoulder once.
Affection that stung like a bruise.

“Rest up. There’s more work coming.”

Then he turned. Left the room. The door clicked shut behind him.

Harry didn’t move for a long time.

Just stood there.

Staring.

Until the mirror caught his eye.

The person in it wasn’t him.

And he didn’t correct it.

 

——-

The door clicked shut behind Norman.

Silence rushed in.

Harry didn’t move.

He stood in the middle of the room, the ghost of Norman’s touch still clinging to his shoulder like rot. His fingers twitched. His throat burned.

The mirror caught his eye again.

He turned toward it.

Slow.

Measured.

And then he stared.

Really stared.

The suit. The posture. The way his jaw clenched. The way his chest still didn’t look quite right under the fabric, even now. Not to him.

Everything about him screamed precision.

And nothing looked like him.

His breath caught.

His chest rose once, sharp.

He stepped forward.

Stared harder.

“You’re not me,” he whispered.

The reflection didn’t argue.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t offer anything back.

Just that perfect mask he wore too well.

“You’re what he made.”

His voice cracked on the last word.

He reached out slowly. Pressed his fingers to the glass. Palms flat.

The image stared back.

Unbothered. Unmoved.

Wrong.

And then—without even thinking—he slammed his fist into it.

The mirror shattered.

Glass rained down like a broken silence.

He stood there, breathing hard, tiny shards clinging to his skin. A thin line of blood welled up on his knuckles. It trickled down, over his wrist.

But he didn’t flinch.

He just reached down—slow, deliberate—and picked up a piece.

A sharp one. No longer than a finger.

He looked at it.

Then at himself.

Then—his sleeve pushed up—he pressed the edge to the inside of his arm.

And dragged it.

Slow.

Just enough to draw blood. Just enough to feel something. Anything. Proof that there was still someone in there.

The pain bloomed. Real. Hot.

He let out a breath. Not a cry. Just air.

The blood welled up along the curve.

And for a second—just one—he felt real again.

He sank to the floor.

Back against the wall.

Staring at nothing.

The shard still in his hand.

“You’re not his,” he whispered again.

Not like this.

Not anymore.

But the mirror stayed broken.

And the mask stayed on.

——-

- STARK SAFEHOUSE – HALLWAY – NIGHT -

Peter moved like a shadow. Hoodie pulled tight. Shoulders hunched. Every footstep careful, controlled—like he was trying not to wake a house built on memory.

He didn’t know what woke him.

A pull, maybe. A pressure behind his ribs.

Or maybe just the echo of Harry’s voice in his head—“I’ll try.”

Peter’s hand curled tighter around the keys in his pocket.

He couldn’t wait until Sunday.

Not if that was the Harry they’d get back.

Not if he kept letting go of himself, piece by piece.

Peter reached the main door. He hesitated for a heartbeat, fingers hovering above the keypad.

Then—

A breath.

Not his.

The air shifted.

Colder.

Still.

Peter froze.

“You shouldn’t go alone,” came the voice behind him.

Low. Even. Too calm for the hour.

Peter turned.

Bucky Barnes stood half in shadow, leaning against the far wall. Arms crossed. Expression unreadable. But his presence wasn’t quiet—not really.

It felt like winter.

Like stillness before something broke.

“How did you—”

“You make noise when you’re upset.”
A pause.
“And I don’t sleep much.”

Peter swallowed hard. Turned back toward the door.

“I have to try. He’s slipping. If we wait too long—”

“You’ll get caught,” Bucky said.
“Or worse—he’ll think you didn’t trust him.”

Peter turned back, eyes sharp.
“He’s hurting. You saw it. You of all people—”

Bucky’s jaw clenched.
He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t flinch.

Just stepped forward.

And said, softer this time:

“You think I don’t know what it’s like to be the weapon they built?”

Silence.

Peter didn’t move.

“Then help me,” he said.

A beat.

Then Bucky stepped forward, reaching out just enough to stop Peter’s hand on the keypad.

“I will.”

He held his gaze.

“But not like this.”

Outside, the wind howled.

Inside, Peter finally let himself fall back against the door.

Breathing hard.

Fighting the urge to run anyway.

Chapter 29: The Cracks in His Reflection

The room was warm. Quiet.

Peter’s hand moved slowly along Harry’s side beneath the blanket—just fingertips, stroking the space where his ribs met his waist. Not asking for anything. Just being there. Steady. Anchoring.

Harry breathed in deep, curled half into him, face tucked beneath Peter’s chin.

His lips brushed Peter’s neck—barely a kiss. Barely a breath.

Peter smiled against his hair.

“Trying to seduce me?”

Harry’s voice was low, a whisper against skin.

“No. Just making sure you’re real.”

Peter kissed his temple. Then his jaw.

Then his mouth.

Soft. Slow. Like the world didn’t exist outside the two of them.

Their hands stayed clasped between them, fingers woven tight. Harry shifted closer, pulling Peter’s arm around him. Letting himself be held.

“Don’t let go,” he murmured.

Peter’s voice was barely audible. “Never.”

He stroked his side again. Mapped the old scars, the new muscle, the quiet tension that never really left. He didn’t need to say he loved him.

Harry could feel it.

He kissed Peter again. Longer, deeper this time. Then nuzzled into the curve of his throat, lips ghosting along the base of it.

“You smell like ozone and sleep,” Harry whispered, smiling.

“You smell like something I never want to lose.”

Peter laughed softly. It rumbled in his chest.

“That’s cheesy.”

“That’s real.”

Another kiss. Slower. Mouths meeting without hesitation, without fear.

Harry sighed.

Held tighter.

And for once—he felt safe.

For once—

The light above flickered.

Everything rippled.

The bed was too cold now.

Peter was gone.

Harry jolted upright.

⸻

- OSCORP – PRIVATE QUARTERS – EARLY MORNING -

Sheets tangled at his hips.

The room too white. Too still.

His heart thundered in his chest like it was chasing something it couldn’t reach.

He touched his lips.

No kiss.

Just breath.

Just silence.

And the ache of a love he could only feel in sleep.

“Goddamn it,” he muttered, choking down the sting behind his eyes.

He looked toward the mirror.

Didn’t dare get up yet.

Because waking was harder than dreaming.

And for one horrible, beautiful second—

He thought Peter was real again.

 

—-

Peter woke up with his arms curled around nothing.

The space beside him was empty.
But warm.

Like someone had just been there.

He blinked slowly, disoriented. His hand drifted over the sheets—searching. Hoping. Finding only cotton and cold air.

His hoodie was still rumpled beside him.

Still smelled like Harry.

Peter sat up, rubbing his eyes. His breath caught for a second—short, shallow. Like he’d just been pulled from underwater too fast.

He didn’t remember dreaming.

Not clearly.

But he could feel it—him. The weight of Harry against his chest. The brush of lips along his throat. A whispered promise still echoing in the hollow of his collarbone.

He looked down at his hands.

They were shaking.

And not from fear.

From missing.

“You were here,” he whispered, more to himself than anyone.

A bitter laugh caught in his throat.

“Or maybe I just want you to be.”

He sank back into the pillow, hoodie pressed to his chest.

Tried to breathe through the ache.

But it stayed.

Right there in the shape of the empty space beside him.

—-

 

- OSCORP – HARRY’S QUARTERS – EARLY MORNING -

Harry stood in front of the wall, gazing at the cracks in his reflection.

Sighing, he picked up the pieces of cracked red glass—shards in his hands.

He threw them into the bin in Mary Jane’s bathroom.
Mary Jane’s bathroom. Not his.
Never hers.

He glanced at his reflection in the window.

The boy staring back wore a suit too sharp for someone his age. Hair brushed back with military precision. Tie flawless. Eyes hollow.

His fingers trembled as he buttoned the cuff.
He didn’t stop them.

He didn’t want to.

His gaze dropped to his wrist.
To the faint smear of ink—the web Peter had drawn on him once. Just a small thing.

But it had lasted through everything.

He stared at it for a long time, gaze falling upon the fresh wounds—red gashes painting his forearm like bruises that refused to fade.

Then he tugged his sleeve over it.

The door buzzed.

Norman’s voice crackled through the speaker like static.

“It’s time.”

Harry didn’t respond.
Just slipped on the blazer.

The Orphan was back.

⸻

- STARK SAFEHOUSE – KITCHEN – SAME TIME -

Peter stood at the counter, hands braced on the surface like it might keep him upright.

Yelena passed him a mug. He didn’t notice at first.

“You didn’t sleep,” she said.

Peter didn’t answer.

Sam glanced up from the map spread across the table.

“We’re not changing the plan, Peter. Not yet.”

Peter’s fingers curled tighter around the edge of the counter.

“He’s disappearing,” he said softly.

Sam sighed.
“And you diving in after him won’t save him if you drown first.”

Bucky, standing off to the side, didn’t say a word.

He just watched.

The quiet kind of watching that meant I know what that feels like.

Then—

A ping.

Yelena checked the tablet.

Her face went sharp.

“They’re moving them.”

Sam straightened.
“Where?”

“A satellite wing. Lower east sector. Not secure—more isolated. Probably prepping something.”

Peter stepped forward, hoodie still rumpled, eyes glassy.

“We go now.”

Yelena looked at him.
Then at Sam.

Then—quietly—

“Sunday was the plan. But this? This is a signal.”

Peter’s jaw clenched.
“Then let’s answer it.”

Chapter 30: Because we’re Peter Parker

Summary:

Multiverse baby!

Notes:

My brain went somewhere and it just pulled me deeper into the rabbit hole of this whole fic.

- STARK SAFEHOUSE – LIVING ROOM– NIGHT -

The team had been arguing for ten minutes.

Sam was at the table, arms crossed, jaw tight.
Bucky stood by the door, silent, but tense.
Yelena leaned against the wall, hands shoved deep in her jacket pockets, eyes flicking between Peter and the glowing blue projection.

Tony’s AI stood mid-sentence—flickering slightly.

“You want to pull what now?” Tony asked, blinking.
“You do realize breaking the multiverse is typically discouraged by most ethical committees and literally every wizard on payroll.”

Peter didn’t flinch.

“Doctor Strange fixed it once. He can do it again.”

Sam cut in, voice sharp.
“Peter, you’re talking about risking everything just to find—what? Alternate versions of yourself?”

“No.”
Peter shook his head.

“I’m talking about the only people who might understand what we’re dealing with. A version of Norman who wants to help. A Peter who knows what it means to lose Gwen. A chance to make this right before we lose Harry forever.”

Silence.

Then Bucky, low:
“Even if it works… these Peters, they’re not from here. They don’t owe you anything.”

Peter’s voice cracked—just slightly.

“Neither did I. And they still saved me.”

A beat. His voice softened.

“Because we’re Peter Parker.”
“The friendly neighborhood Spider-Men.”
“He helps anyone.”

Everyone quieted.

The lights from the console flickered against his face—young, worn down, determined.

He looked up at Tony’s AI.

“Can you help us find Strange?”

Tony didn’t answer at first. Just studied him.

And then—

“You’re lucky you’re cute when you’re idealistic.”
A flicker of a smirk.
“I can find a trace. If he’s even half as paranoid as I was, he’s got a backup signal somewhere in the ether.”

Peter nodded.

Sam stepped forward.

“This is insane.”

Peter looked at him. Calm. Unapologetic.

“So was erasing me.”

And no one said anything after that.

———-

- STARK SAFEHOUSE – LAB – NIGHT -

The lab was dim, bathed in soft blue from the terminal and the low thrum of dormant tech. Peter stood hunched over the central console, hoodie sleeves pushed up, jaw tight, eyes flicking across lines of scrolling data.

Tony’s AI projection hovered nearby, arms crossed, flickering faintly in the dark like a ghost with attitude.

“You ever sleep, or just run on trauma and sheer willpower now?” he asked casually.

Peter didn’t glance up.
“Both. Efficient, right?”

“Dangerously on brand,” Tony muttered.

A soft chime pinged from the console.
The scroll paused. Rewound.
Shifted.

Peter’s brow furrowed.

“What is that?”

Tony stepped closer, watching as odd shapes and runes flickered across the feed—circular, layered, vaguely arcane.

“Not mine,” he said after a beat.
“That’s wizard code.”

Peter leaned in. One of the symbols blinked—then spread outward in spiraling waves, like a heartbeat. A tethering pulse.

It flickered. Burned.

And left behind coordinates.

Tony stared at it, his voice dipping.

“Temporal signature. Someone cast a beacon spell—low power, subtle. Just enough to whisper across timelines.”

Peter’s pulse picked up.

“Strange?”

Tony nodded once, slower this time.
“Looks like your favorite cloak enthusiast left a trail. No note. No safety net. But it’s him.”

Peter stared.
There was something sharp in his chest. Hope—dangerous and bright.

“We can find him.”

“We can try,” Tony replied.
“He buried it deep. Multiversal encryption, woven into arcane junk, hidden like a bad password inside a locked pocket dimension.”

He paused.

“Basically tax evasion. I’m kind of proud of him.”

Peter huffed out a breath—half a laugh, half disbelief.

Footsteps behind him.

Yelena appeared in the doorway, tucking her hair into a loose bun. Melina and Alexei followed, already in gear. And Bucky stood last, silent, expression unreadable.

“We’re going,” Yelena said simply.
“We’ll bring him back.”

Peter nodded once.

Didn’t look up.

Didn’t say goodbye.

Just watched the trail glowing on the screen, like it meant everything.

——

- STARK SAFEHOUSE – HIDDEN WORKSHOP – NIGHT -

The lab was dim, bathed in soft blue from the terminal and the low thrum of dormant tech. Stark’s old tools lined the walls—blueprints, inert gadgets, a cracked arc reactor like a fossil on the shelf.

Peter stood at the center console, hoodie sleeves pushed up, jaw set, eyes locked on the final line of code.

Behind him stood the suit.

Not just a suit.

A prototype left behind after the Blip. Sleeker than the Mark 85. Laced with stealth-grade nanotech and a new arc system Tony had once referred to as “a heart without the hole.” It had been buried in the safehouse under a failsafe code—only accessible through the AI Peter had accidentally finished.

A message had been tucked inside:

“In case of world-ending bullshit, finish this. You’ll know when.”

Peter hadn’t known what he was building at first. But his hands had moved like they remembered something his heart couldn’t say.

Now it stood before him. Silent. Complete.

Peter slid the final drive into the neural port at the arc core—shaped like a coin. Like a heart. Like something you never stop carrying.

He stepped back.

The reactor flickered.

Once.

Twice.

Then—

Steady.

A soft pulse lit the chestpiece.

And then:

“Huh.”

The voice was warm. Familiar. A little too casual for someone technically dead.

“So this is what resurrection feels like. Bit more metal than expected.”

The suit shifted. Servos clicked. Fingers curled.

And then—

Tony Stark walked forward.

Not flesh. Not ghost.

But presence. Built from code and memory and something stronger.

Peter didn’t speak.

Couldn’t.

“Before you freak out—yes, it’s me. No, I don’t have a pulse. And yes, I’m still judging your posture.”

Peter stared.
“You’re… standing.”

“Not bad for a guy with no nerve endings.”
Tony tilted his head. “You finished it.”

Peter nodded. Swallowed. His voice cracked.

“I didn’t know what I was building. I just… couldn’t stop. The code kept pulling me forward.”

“You built something to carry me,” Tony said softly.
“Whether you meant to or not.”

A pause.

“You gave me legs again, Pete.”

Peter laughed once—barely.

“You’re gonna make me cry, and you don’t even have tear ducts.”

Tony moved forward, placed a metal hand gently on Peter’s shoulder.

“You’ve carried enough on your own.”

Peter tried to laugh it off. It almost came out.
But it twisted instead.

He looked down.

Fingers clenched at his sides.

And the breath—sharp, cracked, sudden—tore from his chest before he could stop it.

He sank to the floor slowly, hoodie bunching at his elbows, and curled forward—hands over his face like that might hold it all in.

He cried.

Really cried.

Not the kind of tears he’d shed after battles. Not the quiet kind that burned behind his eyes when no one was watching.

But the kind he hadn’t allowed himself since May.

Since the hospital room.

Since the funeral.

Since the moment he realized that everyone who ever said “I’ll stay” left anyway.

And now—this.

Iron Man, standing before him. A suit powered by memory.
A voice from beyond the grave calling him kid again.

He broke.

And the suit—Tony—just stood there, not moving.

Not offering comfort.

Not stepping in.

Just staying.

Letting him feel it all.

Because maybe that’s what he’d needed most.

Someone who didn’t leave.

I missed you, Dad.”

It came out smaller than he meant. Like it had been waiting inside him too long to come out whole.

Tony didn’t glitch.

Didn’t joke.

The suit’s gaze steadied.

And for once—he just answered.

“I did too, Son.”

—-

- OSCORP – OBSERVATION FLOOR – NIGHT -

The hallway stretched in sterile silence—white walls, black floors, glass cutting everything into sharp-edged frames. Too clean. Too quiet.

Norman stood at one of the tall control panels, watching the feed from above. His reflection barely moved in the glass.

Below, Harry walked the lab floor.

Purposeful. Composed. Every step precise.

He spoke to a technician in low tones, accepted a clipboard, tapped something into the main console. Efficient. Exact.

Exactly how Norman had trained him.

A flicker of satisfaction passed through Norman’s face.

He tapped the comm.

“Upstairs. Now.”

⸻

- OSCORP – PRIVATE OFFICE –

Harry stepped inside the office, the door hissing shut behind him.

Norman stood at the window, back turned, hands clasped behind him. His voice came low, almost amused:

“You wear the mask well.”

Harry didn’t answer.

Didn’t blink.

“I always said you had her presence. Not just the face. The way she moved. Quiet control.”

He turned—slowly. Walked to Harry.

“You’re more like her than you know.”

Harry didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.

Norman stepped closer. Reached up. Brushed invisible dust off Harry’s shoulder.

Too slow. Too familiar.

“But you let them do something to your body. Something wrong. I look at you now and I see a ghost of what you were supposed to be.”

Harry’s fingers twitched—just once.

“You don’t speak much anymore.”
Norman’s voice dropped to a hush.

“Is that shame? Or training?”

Still, Harry didn’t look away.

Didn’t speak.

Norman’s hand rested on his shoulder now.

“My creation.”
A whisper.

Then louder—like anger flaring under control:
“But what you became Harriet. It’s not who you’re supposed to be.
Isn’t it, love?”

Harry’s breath caught.

Norman leaned in, eyes sharp.

“Say it.”

No answer.

The silence stretched.

Then Norman’s tone hardened. Cold.

“Say it, Harry.”

But there was no one home.

Harry’s gaze had gone glassy.

Still. Controlled. Gone.

Norman smiled faintly.

“Good.”

He stepped back and placed a small data drive into Harry’s palm.

“I need you to oversee the next transfer. East Wing. No deviations.”

Harry closed his hand around it slowly.

Nodded once.

“Understood.”

Then he turned and left.

⸻

As soon as the door closed behind him, Harry’s shoulders dropped—not broken, just off.

His hand clenched the drive.

His breath came shallower.

He kept walking.

Eyes forward.

One step at a time.

Like a machine trying to remember how to be a person.

Like someone who hadn’t been touched—gently—in far too long.

Only by Peter.

Pete, I can’t hold myself anymore. I’m drowning love.

Chapter 31: Beyond the Portal

- MOUNTAINTOP SHRINE – NEPAL – DUSK -

Snow curled around the edges of the shrine, silent as a secret. Inside, the shadows flickered softly—golden candlelight casting long lines across worn stone and ancient books.

A portal shimmered open.

Yelena stepped through first, cautious. Then Bucky, silent and steady. Melina followed, her expression unreadable.

Stephen Strange looked up from a book he hadn’t been reading. His cloak hung from a hook, motionless. His hands stilled on the desk as he took them in.

“I don’t take walk-ins,” he said flatly.

Yelena didn’t flinch.
“This isn’t a walk-in. This is a warning.”

Strange frowned.

“And who are you warning me about?”

Melina took a careful step forward.
“Someone you once knew. Someone the world forgot.”

“You’re going to have to be more specific,” Strange muttered, though something behind his eyes flickered.

Bucky pulled a Stark-coded drive from his pocket.
“You sealed a memory,” he said. “Yours. Everyone’s. But something’s leaking through.”

He set it on the table. The device activated with a low hum, projecting fractured multiversal strands—runes, timelines, flickers of faces.

One of them… was Peter.

A boy. Blurred.

A Spider-Man mask.

A rooftop.
A goodbye.

Strange stared.

“That’s… not possible.”

Yelena stepped beside him.
“But you feel it, don’t you?”

A long silence.

Strange didn’t answer. His gaze locked on the projection, on the shape of a memory he didn’t have—but something in him ached anyway.

“You won’t remember his name,” Melina said gently. “But the hole he left? That’s still there.”

Another beat.

Then, finally, Strange said quietly:

“I don’t know who he is… but I believe you.”

—-

- MOUNTAINTOP SHRINE – SPELL ROOM –

The walls were etched with ancient sigils. Dust hung thick in the corners, but the magic in the air pulsed like a heartbeat—dormant, but still alive.

Strange stood at the center, cloak billowing faintly. He’d drawn the circle himself. Not trusting anyone else to do it. Old instinct.

Bucky, Yelena, and Melina stood off to the side. Watching. Waiting.

The Stark device hovered in the air, projecting coordinates—fragments from the AI, and the beacon spell Tony and Peter had unearthed. Glimpses of threads.

Of multiverses.

Of people trying to reach through.

Strange’s hands moved in slow, practiced rhythm—fingers curling, ring glinting. Sparks began to glow around the circle.

The room dimmed.

“This won’t bring back memories,” he said, eyes closed. “Not mine. Not anyone’s. But it might bring them.”

Yelena nodded.
“That’s all we need.”

“But you better be ready.”
Strange opened his eyes.

They glowed faintly now.
“Because we’re not just calling Spider-Men.”
“We’re calling ghosts.”

The circle ignited.

A sharp pull in the air—like the universe was inhaling. Reality folded inward.

And through the rip—
A figure stepped forward.

Tall. Familiar.

Peter Parker.
Not theirs.

Peter Two.

He blinked against the light. Confused. Older. Still carrying the weight of a thousand regrets in his eyes.

Behind him—
Another figure.

Younger. Wild-eyed.

Peter Three.

They looked around—first at the portal, then at each other.

And just before the gate sealed behind them—

A third shimmer.

Two figures stepped out side by side.

Otto Octavius.
Calmer. Wiser.

And beside him—
Norman Osborn.
Softer. Eyes sharp, but not cruel.

They stood, shoulders squared, hands loose by their sides. Older. Changed.

Together.

Strange exhaled.
“Well,” he muttered. “This is going to get complicated.”

Bucky took one step forward.

“Good.”
“Because our version of Norman is worse.”

——-

- MOUNTAINTOP SHRINE – JUST BEYOND THE PORTAL – TWILIGHT -

The wind cut sharp through the thin mountain air.

Peter Two blinked slowly, adjusting to the brightness, the unfamiliar terrain. He looked older—lined not by age, but by choices. A man who had carried the city on his back for too long. A man who lost—but kept moving anyway.

Peter Three stepped up beside him, hoodie half-zipped, hair windblown. He looked more like the one their Peter might’ve become—scrappy, sensitive, still healing.

They both turned as Otto stepped through—more careful, more precise. His coat moved in the breeze. But it was Norman’s figure that brought the silence down like a hammer.

This Norman looked nothing like the one that haunted Harry’s mind.

His hair was silvering at the temples. His jaw relaxed. His eyes scanned the horizon with caution—but not control. He didn’t dominate the room like a threat.

He entered it like a man who remembered being one.

Strange, watching them quietly, stepped back from the edge of the circle.

Yelena’s fingers twitched near her weapon. Bucky’s gaze locked onto Norman—testing, measuring. The wind hissed past them.

“Peter?” Otto asked, low. “Is he here?”

Melina nodded.

“Inside the safehouse. But he’s not the only one you’re here for.”

Peter Three looked confused. “There’s more than just him?”

Strange folded his hands. “There’s someone else—someone who never got a second chance.”

Peter Two turned slightly. “Harry.”

Norman flinched.

Just barely. But enough.

“He’s alive?”

Yelena’s voice came cold:
“In a way.”

A beat of silence stretched.

Then Bucky, quietly:
“He’s your son. But he doesn’t know this you.”

Norman’s jaw flexed.
“Then maybe it’s time he did.”
—

- OSCORP – PRIVATE QUARTERS – LATE NIGHT -

The room was dim.

Clean. Controlled. Cold.

Harry sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing.

The walls were too white. Too perfect.

Like they were trying to erase the shape of him.

He held one of the Oscorp tablets in his lap. Not watching anything. Just holding it. The blank screen stared back.

Across the room, the mirror still bore the faint spiderweb cracks from earlier—the ones he hadn’t tried to clean up.

His eyes drifted to it.

The man in the glass looked like him, but thinner. Sharper. Hollowed out.

Like something had been taken and never returned.

He shifted. Tugged his sleeve down. Saw the faint smear of old ink—the remains of a drawn web. Just a line now. Almost gone.

Harry exhaled.

His voice barely a whisper.

“I used to believe I could be more than this.”

He stood up slowly. Crossed the room to the mirror.

“But maybe this is what I was made for.”

His reflection didn’t argue.

It just stared.

He reached up. Touched the side of the glass with two fingers. Scarred knuckles brushing the cracks. He didn’t press hard. He didn’t want it to break again.

His voice dropped even lower.

“I don’t know if he’d even recognize me now.”

Silence answered.

He stepped back, slowly.

Let the hoodie fall back into place.

Let the cold armor of the day wrap around him again.

And then—he turned.

Walked back to the bed.

Not to sleep.

Just to sit.

To wait.

To endure.

The lights stayed on.

Chapter 32: Through the same Fire

- STARK SAFEHOUSE – FOYER – EARLY EVENING -

The lights flickered once overhead.

A low hum vibrated through the floorboards. The kind of energy you could feel more than hear.

And then—
The portal opened.

It didn’t blaze or crackle. It just appeared—a golden spiral folding in on itself like a breath drawn too tight. Dust lifted off the floor. A gust of cold air swept through.

Yelena stepped back. Bucky shifted.

Peter—our Peter—stood dead still.

From within the portal, five figures emerged.

Stephen Strange stepped through first, cloak fluttering behind him like a shadow that couldn’t quite detach.

Behind him came the others.

Peter Two.

Peter Three.

Otto Octavius.

And Norman Osborn.

For a second, no one moved.

Then Strange looked up, eyes already tired.

“Hope you kept the place clean.”

Peter’s breath caught as the two older versions of himself stepped fully into view.

Peter Two’s eyes went soft the moment they met his. A quiet nod. No need for words.

Peter Three didn’t look up at first. Hands shoved in his pockets. Hoodie half-zipped. Expression unreadable. He looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks.

Peter’s voice broke the silence.

“…Hi.”

Peter Two smiled faintly.
“Hi, kid.”

Peter Three just gave a nod.
Mutual understanding. Pain held in different angles.

Otto was next to step forward. He didn’t smile, but his presence brought something solid to the room.

“You’ve been busy.”

Peter nodded.
“Not by choice.”

Norman lingered at the edge of the room, eyes sweeping the interior like it was a battlefield. He didn’t speak. Not yet.

Sam crossed his arms.
“You brought him?”

Strange’s voice was dry.
“We didn’t pick the plus-ones. The spell did.”

Peter’s gaze flicked to Norman. Their eyes met. Peter stiffened—but didn’t speak.

Norman raised his hands slowly.

“I’m not him.”

“Not sure that matters right now,” Yelena said coldly.

“It will,” Otto said, calm and certain.
“Because this time, he’s not here to destroy anything.”

“He’s here to save his son,” Peter Two added quietly.

A silence fell.

Peter Three’s head snapped up.

“Wait. Son?”

That was the first time he spoke. His voice rasped with the weight of years. His hands clenched.

“You mean… Harry?”

Peter nodded. His throat tightened.

“He’s still alive.”

A long silence.

Peter Three looked at the floor. Then up again—at Peter.

“And Gwen?”

Peter didn’t speak right away.

Then—

“Taken. Being used. With MJ. But we know where they are.”

Peter Three’s jaw clenched.
“…Okay.”

Peter Two laid a hand gently on his shoulder.

“You don’t have to—”

“I do.”

Peter Three looked over at their Peter. And for the first time, his expression cracked.

“If I get even one chance to save her—
I’m not walking away.”

Norman spoke next. Low. Controlled.

“And if I can save my son from becoming what I once was—
I will.”

Otto adjusted his cuffs.
“Then let’s not waste time.”

——

- STARK SAFEHOUSE – COMMON ROOM / ADJACENT LAB – MOMENTS AFTER ARRIVAL -

The tension hadn’t settled yet.

Stephen Strange was already flipping through glowing sigils projected in mid-air while Peter 1 and Sam briefed the others. Norman Osborn remained near the wall—silent, scanning. Otto Octavius sat with arms crossed, his eyes sharp and observant.

Peter 2 and Peter 3 stood to the side, quietly processing everything.

Then the door to the adjacent lab slid open with a soft hiss.

And Tony Stark walked in.

Not Tony Stark—not exactly.

A suit.

Slimmer than the old models. All black with hints of crimson and silver threading through the armor. A new arc reactor lit the chest like a heart on fire. The faceplate was stylized—sleeker, expressive.

But when it spoke, the voice was unmistakable.

Tony Stark (AI):
“Miss me?”

Everyone froze.

Peter 1 stepped in behind the suit, hoodie sleeves rolled, sheepish and exhausted.

Peter:
“Uh. Surprise?”

The room went dead quiet.

Sam blinked.
Yelena actually took a step back.

Bucky:
“…That’s not possible.”

Tony:
“Technically, neither is time travel or purple aliens snapping half the universe like a Thanos-themed piñata, but here we are.”

Melina:
“You’re… Stark?”

Tony:
“Guilty. Digitally immortal and still drop-dead charming.”

He stepped forward—if it could be called stepping. The suit moved fluidly, less like a machine, more like a ghost in armor. Controlled, aware.

Yelena
“I watched you die.”

Tony (softly):
“Yeah. That sucked.”

A beat.

Sam:
“But you’re—”

Tony:
“Not him. Not really. Let’s just say I’m what happens when a genius with commitment issues plans for the end like it’s a retirement party.”

He turned to Peter 1.

Tony:
“And this punk accidentally finished the prototype and dragged me back from backup like an emotional support algorithm.”

Peter rubbed the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at the group.

Peter:
“I didn’t know what I was building.”

Tony:
“You built something to carry me. That’s more than I ever asked for.”

The silence shifted—slightly softer. Slightly sadder.

Otto finally stood.

Otto:
“Can you help us?”

Tony:
“I’ve got data from across timelines. Magical breadcrumbs from your favorite wizard. Surveillance hooks, Oscorp floor plans, and the ability to out-snark six universes at once.”

He paused. Then, sincerely:

Tony:
“So yeah. I’m in.”

Peter looked over at the team.

Peter:
“He’s already helping me track Strange’s location. There’s a signal. Something we can follow.”

Strange gave a curt nod.
“Then we follow it.”

Tony raised one gauntleted hand, fingers ticking the air.

Tony:
“Alright, multiverse club. Let’s go save some kids.”

A flicker of the old spark.

For just a second—it felt like the team was whole again.

———-

- STARK SAFEHOUSE – DINING ROOM / WAR ROOM – NIGHT -

The long wooden table had been cleared of mismatched coffee mugs and leftover ration bars. In their place: a projected map, glowing faint blue, centered on Oscorp’s grid. Stark-tech overlays flickered over the layout—updated security routes, heat signatures, digital ghost trails.

Tony’s AI hovered at the head of the display, hands gesturing through layers of code and surveillance.

Tony (AI):
“Alright, kids. Here’s the breakdown: Oscorp’s mainframe is tighter than a congressional budget meeting, but it’s bleeding through its satellite wing. That’s where they moved the girls.”

Peter 1 stood nearest to the projection, arms crossed, jaw tight. His hoodie sleeves were still pushed up from earlier—he hadn’t changed, hadn’t eaten. Had barely blinked.

Peter:
“How long do we have?”

Tony:
“Hard to say. The movement pattern on the guards changed yesterday—more shifts, tighter windows. Either they’re planning a transfer, or they’re expecting company.”

Yelena leaned in beside Peter, arms folded.

Yelena:
“They should expect company.”

Across the room, Bucky paced slowly. Quiet. Observing.

Bucky:
“We need an infiltration route they won’t see coming. Something they think is routine.”

Melina:
“We could pose as transport. Drivers. Guards. You said they rotate every Sunday.”

Peter nodded, eyes still locked on the display.

Peter:
“6 p.m. sharp. They change shift leaders and rotate the enhanced cells.”

Tony raised a brow.

Tony:
“He’s good. He’s definitely mine.”

Sam (Captain America):
“That’s our opening. But we need to assume the place is crawling with enhanced security—hydra leftovers, maybe worse.”

Otto stepped forward, his expression calm.

Otto:
“And we cannot tell Harry. Not the details. The less he knows, the more believable his cover remains.”

Peter flinched. Subtly.

Norman didn’t say anything. Just stood near the edge of the projection, watching his son’s digital heat signature move across the Oscorp layout like a ghost.

Norman:
“He’s already inside. If he holds the line, he can be our signal.”

Peter finally looked up.

Peter:
“If he holds.”

Yelena’s hand found his shoulder. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to.

Tony:
“Then it’s simple. We time it right, we walk in under their noses, extract the girls, extract your undercover wildcard, and hopefully don’t trigger Armageddon.”

Alexei (grinning):
“I like this plan.”

Sam:
“We move Sunday. No improvisation unless necessary.”

Bucky:
“We all know what we’re risking.”

Peter (quietly):
“Then we better make it worth it.”

A long beat.

Then the display dimmed.

The plan was set.

They had four days.

And the clock had already started ticking.

——

The team was still gathered around the glowing schematic of Oscorp’s lower sector. The plan was set. Most of it.

But Peter hadn’t stopped staring at the security logs.

The outline of his fingers trembled slightly on the edge of the table.

Then Otto broke the silence.

Otto:
“There is… another option. Riskier, yes. But effective.”

All eyes turned to him.

He nodded toward Norman.

Otto (calmly):
“Let him walk in.”

Norman’s brow twitched.

Norman:
“You mean impersonate him.”

Yelena:
“You’re genetically identical. At a glance, you’re him.”

Bucky:
“More than a glance. Surveillance won’t question it. Guards won’t either.”

Norman’s jaw clenched. He didn’t answer right away. Just turned back toward the map, watching his own name ripple across the internal logs—twice.

Norman:
“If it gets us through the front door…”

Tony (AI):
“It will. I back-channeled Oscorp’s biometric database. Facial recognition’s a joke if you feed it a lie it already wants to believe.”

Sam:
“You sure you’re up for that?”

Norman:
“I became a monster once. I remember how to wear the skin.”

A heavy silence followed.

Peter stepped forward, voice strained but steady.

Peter:
“Just don’t become him again.”

Norman met his gaze.

Norman (quietly):
“I don’t intend to. That’s why I’m here.”

Tony’s projection flickered slightly at Peter’s side, arms crossed.

Tony:
“Well, if we’re cosplaying the worst version of ourselves, someone better bring popcorn.”

Peter huffed, barely smiling. But it didn’t reach his eyes.

Otto (to Tony):
“Make yourself useful and start patching into their internal server. We’ll need clean credentials and a corrupted login badge to get him through security.”

Tony:
“Already ahead of you. And don’t worry—this version of me loves breaking into things.”

Melina:
“We’ll still need to sync movement timing with the transport crew.”

Sam:
“I’ll get you clearance. Old SHIELD access still opens doors.”

Yelena:
“We should rehearse it. A few times. If he’s going in as Norman, the rest of us need to move like his ghosts.”

She looked at Norman.

Not the monster.

The man trying to atone for him.

Yelena (softly):
“You better be good.”

Norman didn’t blink.

Norman:
“I know the part.”

And somewhere, quietly, Peter felt something shift.

A glimmer of possibility.

A way in.

But still, the weight of Harry’s name on the map hadn’t moved.

And Peter knew—it wouldn’t be enough to get through the front door.

They’d still have to pull him out of whatever room he was trapped in.

Even if that room was inside his own mind.

“You know what?” he said with mock cheer. “Mental health matters these days. The whole internet is talking about it. Why don’t we take a break and meet back here in half an hour?”

There was a pause. A collective blink.

Sam tilted his head, raising an eyebrow. “Since when do mad scientists care about wellness?”

Otto only grinned. “Since one of them fell in love and started reading self-help articles. Don’t judge me.”

Tony’s AI flickered in at Peter’s shoulder, arms folded across his chest. “I’m sending that quote straight to Pepper.”

Yelena rolled her eyes and stood, stretching. “Good. I need air. And caffeine.”

Alexei followed her toward the kitchen. Melina didn’t say anything—just nodded and disappeared down the hall like she already knew where she was going.

Peter 1 had already moved, slipping toward the back door in silence. His hand brushed the wall as he passed, almost unconsciously. Like he needed to feel something solid.

Peter 3 watched him go. Something in his chest tightened.

A hand brushed his elbow.

Peter 2, quieter than usual, just nodded once. “Come on. Let’s follow.”

Peter 3 hesitated. Then followed.

- STARK SAFEHOUSE – BACK PORCH – MOMENTS LATER -

The screen door creaked shut behind them.

The wind outside was colder than it had been hours before. The kind of cold that didn’t sting, but settled deep—like something old returning.

Peter 1 was already there. Silent. Looking out across the dark.

Peter 2 stepped into the quiet, hoodie sleeves bunched in his fists, unsure of how to begin.

Peter 3 didn’t say much. He just stepped up beside them both, gaze calm, steady.

And for a moment, none of them spoke.

Just three versions of the same boy. Haunted in different ways. Reaching across time with no one but each other.

Chapter 33: of comfort, Of Pain

- STARK SAFEHOUSE – BACK PORCH – LATER THAT NIGHT -

Peter needed that break. The other Peter just followed him outside, sensing the young one was troubled. Of course he was - like all of them - they’re Peter Parker.

The air was cooler out here. Crisp. Still.

Beyond the porch, the forest stretched into darkness, the kind that swallowed headlights and echoed with things that didn’t matter anymore. They’d lit a small firepit near the edge of the house. The embers glowed low. It wasn’t for warmth. Just for something to look at.

Peter sat on the old bench. Hoodie sleeves bunched at his wrists, hands clasped between his knees.

Peter Two leaned against the porch railing.

Peter Three crouched nearby, picking up a stick, running his fingers over the bark like it helped him think.

No one spoke for a while.

Then—

Peter Two: “He means a lot to you, doesn’t he?”

Peter looked up. Blinked.
“Who?”

A small, knowing smile.

Peter Two: “You know who.”

Peter didn’t answer.

Peter Three tossed the stick into the fire.

Peter Three: “You looked like you were gonna fall apart when you said his name. That’s not just ‘I miss my friend’ energy.”

Peter looked away. His voice dropped.

“It’s complicated.”

Peter Two nodded.

Harry doesn’t do complicated, Peter three remembered quietly.

“Yeah. It always is.”

Peter Three leaned back on his hands.
“Is he… your Harry?”

Peter hesitated.

Then, softly:

“He’s not mine. But I think I want him to be.”

That quiet hit deep.

Peter Two walked over and sat beside him.

“My Harry was my best friend. I loved him like a brother. And I never got the chance to tell him how much he meant to me before I lost him.”

Peter Three didn’t look up.

“Mine turned on me. Tried to kill me.”
A beat.
“I went to visit him in prisión after 10 years, just after we came back from our last adventure. I just stood there, and he blinked back with those blue eyes of his. Like somone who was long gone. I don’t know what they do to their patients there. But that gaze haunts me.”

Peter stared at the fire.

“Mine… was taken before I even got the chance to really know him. Norman made sure of that. And now he’s back. But not really. Just… what they made him into.”

His voice cracked.

“I don’t know how to save him.”

Peter Two rested a hand on his shoulder.

“You don’t have to know. You just have to try.”

Peter Three added quietly:

“And don’t wait to say what you need to say. Trust me. That kind of regret doesn’t go away.”

Peter exhaled. The firelight reflected in his eyes.

“I kissed him. Just once. On his cheek. Before he went under. I don’t even think he remembers it anymore.”

Peter Two squeezed his shoulder gently.

Peter Three smiled, just faintly.

“Then remind him.”

The three of them sat there, watching the fire crackle.

Different timelines. Same ache.

But for the first time—Peter wasn’t carrying it alone.

 

- STARK SAFEHOUSE – INDOOR VERANDA – NIGHT -

The room was dim, cast in the soft amber glow of a vintage lamp. The window was slightly ajar, letting in the chill of the evening. It smelled faintly of old paper and pine.

Norman sat on the couch, elbows on his knees, fingers loosely interlocked. He hadn’t spoken in a while.

Otto entered without knocking, a familiar presence in a place that still didn’t quite feel real. He didn’t say anything at first. Just walked over and rested a hand on Norman’s shoulder.

Norman leaned into the touch without thinking.

“You’re quiet,” Otto murmured.

Norman exhaled through his nose. “I keep thinking about what I’d say if I saw him again. This version. The one I broke.”

Otto moved around to sit beside him. Not touching at first—just close. He knew better than to force contact when Norman was already unraveling himself inside his own head.

“He’s not the only one you’re trying to fix,” Otto said gently.

Norman looked over.

And Otto… just looked back.

Soft. Steady. No judgment. Just the kind of tired affection that comes from too many second chances and the shared gravity of surviving something you didn’t ask for.

“I was a monster in that world,” Norman said. “I could be one here too. I still feel it. That edge. It never goes away.”

“I know,” Otto replied. “But you’re not him. Not anymore.”

“I’m afraid of becoming him.”

“And I’m not,” Otto said, voice firmer now. “Because I’ve seen you choose not to. Again and again.”

Norman’s hand twitched between them. Otto took it.

Fingers threaded without hesitation.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me,” Otto said softly. “You already did. You came back. You came here. And you stayed.”

A long silence. But not uncomfortable.

Then Norman leaned into Otto’s side, just slightly, resting his head there like it had become second nature. Like the armor didn’t need to be worn here.

Otto kissed the top of his head once. Gentle. Familiar.

“You’re allowed to be loved, Norman.”

“I don’t know how I got that lucky,” Norman murmured.

Otto smiled faintly. “By being a pain in the ass with a redemption arc.”

Norman huffed out something like a laugh.

And for a few more minutes, they just sat there. Together. Quiet. Solid.

Like two men who had nothing left to prove except to each other.

- STARK SAFEHOUSE – WAR ROOM – half an hour later -

The Stark safehouse had been many things—a time capsule, a refuge, a graveyard of unfinished ideas. Tonight, it was a war room.

The table was cluttered with maps, surveillance images, schematics of Oscorp’s underground systems. Tony’s AI flickered on the projector, running simulations in real time. Norman stood to one side, arms crossed tightly, jaw tense. Otto beside him, quiet but razor-sharp, eyes flicking across the data.

Peter 1 leaned over the table, hoodie sleeves pushed up, jaw locked. Sam Wilson stood beside him, arms folded across his chest. Bucky, half-shadowed near the doorway, hadn’t said a word in ten minutes. Yelena, Melina, and Alexei flanked the sides, alert and calculating.

And near the edge of it all—

Peter 2, steady and calm.

Peter 3, tense and silent, arms folded, eyes flicking toward the Oscorp layout every few seconds like it might bite.

Tony (AI):
“Alright, kiddos. Here’s what we’ve got: Oscorp’s internal systems rotate ID tags every 48 hours. Facial recognition runs on a hybrid of voiceprint and retinal data, which—good news—still thinks Norman here is top dog.”

He gestured to redeemed Norman, who flinched ever so slightly.

Yelena:
“We get him in through the security wing. That gives us control over the lifts and surveillance on sublevel three—where they’re holding the girls.”

Sam:
“We’ll need to time the breach with the shift change. Less resistance. Fewer eyes.”

Bucky (quietly):
“And more pressure. If we miss the window, we’re locked out.”

Peter 1:
“We won’t miss it.”

The room stilled. Everyone looked at him.

Peter 1 (softer):
“They’re running out of time. And Harry… Harry’s slipping further away every hour.”

Peter 2 (quietly):
“He’s still in there.”

Peter 1 turned toward him.

Peter 2:
“You said he was pretending. That means there’s still something left to reach.”

Peter 3 (finally speaking):
“Sometimes… the pretending becomes easier than the truth.”

His voice was low. Rough. Haunted.

Peter 3 (after a beat):
“But it doesn’t mean he’s gone.”

Peter 1’s hands flexed on the edge of the table.

Peter 1:
“Then we need to get to him before he forgets how to come back.”

Otto:
“We’ll guide you through Oscorp’s lower tunnels. Norman and I know the structure—what’s changed, what hasn’t. We’ll break from the inside.”

Tony:
“And I’ll handle security override. I’ve already started pulling blueprints from a backup server. Give me an hour and I’ll make the building think it’s 2018 again.”

Norman (quietly):
“And I’ll walk in like I own the place. Because he still thinks he does.”

Yelena (nods):
“We’ll split. Diversion team and extraction team.”

Sam:
“You’re all assuming they won’t notice a second Norman walking around.”

Peter 3 (smirking, just slightly):
“Let them notice. We’ll be long gone by the time they figure it out.”

Peter 2 (to Peter 1):
“You’re leading the extraction, aren’t you?”

Peter 1 nodded.

Peter 1:
“I’m bringing him home.”

Silence stretched.

And then Tony, softer than usual:

Tony:
“Let’s make sure there’s a home left to bring him to.”

——-

The door to the strategy room shut behind him with a muted click. Peter lingered there for a second, fingers brushing the frame like he could hold the weight of what they’d just planned.

He moved down the hallway, slow.

In the living room, Sam and Bucky stood near the fireplace—speaking in low tones, their silhouettes outlined by flickering orange light. Sam had a map in his hands. Bucky didn’t look at it. His eyes were somewhere else entirely.

Peter passed the kitchen.

Yelena was perched on the counter, spoon in hand, eating something straight from the pot. Melina stirred beside her, focused. Casual domesticity, like war hadn’t been carved into the corners of their faces. They didn’t notice him. Or pretended not to.

Peter didn’t interrupt.

Farther down the hall, Otto and Norman stood near the back window. Quiet. Closer than necessary. Norman’s voice low, a hand resting briefly on Otto’s arm—just long enough to say I’m still here.

Peter kept walking.

The floor creaked under his weight like the house itself knew he didn’t belong in stillness.

He stopped in front of the lab door.

Paused.

Then pushed it open.

The door hissed softly shut behind him.

Inside, the blue glow of dormant tech greeted him like a whisper—humming faintly through the floorboards. Stark’s interface pulsed quietly at the terminal, waiting.

Peter crossed the room in slow, measured steps. The hoodie he’d been wearing all day hung heavy on his shoulders—still faintly smelling like smoke, and like Harry.

He didn’t sit. Just braced his hands on the edge of the console.

“Pull up last known footage,” he muttered.

The display flickered.

Oscorp security feeds blinked to life across the screen, shaky and silent—windows into someone else’s prison.

Harry appeared on one of them. Walking past the cell corridor with mechanical precision, flanked by two guards. His face was blank. His posture perfect. He didn’t even glance at the camera.

Peter swallowed.

“Enhance.”

The system obeyed.

A close-up.

Harry’s jaw was set, mouth a flat line. His eyes looked glassed over—too sharp in the wrong way. Not angry. Not scared.

Empty.

Peter’s hand clenched at his side.

“Stop,” came a voice behind him.

Tony’s projection emerged from the shadows, arms crossed. No snark this time. Just steady.

“You’re going to break yourself open if you keep watching like that.”

Peter didn’t look away from the screen.

“He doesn’t even flinch when Norman touches him.”

“He’s acting.”

“What if he’s not?” Peter asked, voice low. Fragile.

Tony stepped beside him. The glow from the monitors cast both their reflections into the glass—one man and a shadow of a suit.

“I’ve seen people survive worse,” Tony said.
“But I’ve also seen what happens when they start to believe they were made for the pain.”

Peter turned his face slightly, eyes rimmed red but dry.

“He used to trace my skin when he couldn’t sleep. Now he won’t even blink on camera.”

Tony didn’t move.

“Then remind him what real feels like. When it’s time.”

A beat.

Then Peter whispered, barely audible:

“I miss him.”

Tony didn’t answer.

But the screen dimmed.

And for just a second, the weight in Peter’s chest eased. Not because it was gone. But because someone else was helping hold it.

——-

- STARK SAFEHOUSE – BACK PORCH – NIGHT -

Snow drifted down in slow spirals, thick and quiet, muffling the world beyond the porch. The old boards creaked faintly beneath Peter 2’s boots as he leaned against the railing, hands buried in his coat pockets, breath misting in the cold.

He wasn’t really watching the woods—just letting his eyes rest there. Letting his mind do what it always did when things were too quiet.

Behind him, the screen door clicked open.

Peter 3 stepped out, hoodie pulled tight over his head, arms crossed. He didn’t say anything. Just walked to the edge of the porch and stood beside him.

They didn’t speak for a while.

Just stood there, side by side, listening to the snow hit the roof in soft, barely-there taps.

Finally, Peter 3’s voice broke through the quiet.

“Do you think they’ll make it?”

Peter 2 didn’t move. His breath curled in the air.

“They have to,” he said simply.

Peter 3 nodded, though there was a tightness in his jaw.

“My Harry tried to kill me,” he said after a moment. Not bitter. Just stating it like a fact he still didn’t fully know how to hold.

Peter 2 glanced over, his face unreadable. Then he looked back at the tree line.

“Mine died saving me.”

The silence after that was longer.

Peter 3’s eyes dropped to the porch floorboards. “We really hit the lottery, huh?”

Peter 2 gave a soft, almost smile—wry and tired. “Yeah.”

A beat.

“You ever visit him?”

Peter 3’s posture shifted. More guarded. He hesitated.

“Once,” he said finally. “Ten years later. He was in some secure facility. Unrecognizable. I don’t think he knew who I was.”

His voice got quieter.

“I still remember how he looked at me. Like… like I was a ghost.”

Peter 2 didn’t respond right away. Just breathed.

“He looked at Gwen earlier,” Peter 3 said. “This Harry. Just for a second. Like he knew her.”

Peter 2 turned slightly toward him. Frowned. Listening.

“That was the part that got me,” Peter 3 continued. “Not the voice. Not the suit. Just that look. Like he remembered someone he never met.”

The wind picked up, brushing snow across the porch in lazy spirals.

Peter 2 let out a slow breath. His voice came low and sure.

“He’s fighting. And someone’s fighting for him.”

He looked back toward the windows—where light glowed warm behind the frosted glass.

“That already makes him different.”

Peter 3 nodded once. His expression was hard to read—somewhere between ache and hope.

“I want to believe that.”

They stood in silence again, the snow curling around their feet like time folding in on itself.

And then, Peter 2 said it softly. Like a promise to the wind.

“Maybe this time… we can make it right.”

Chapter 34: Past Mistakes shape the Purpose

- OSCORP – CONTAINMENT WING – NIGHT -

The lights dimmed at exactly the same time each cycle. MJ had counted. Every nine hours, like clockwork. But the absence of natural sunlight made it feel longer. Time stretched like plastic wrap—thin, suffocating, see-through.

She sat on the floor, back to the glass, eyes unfocused. Her arms were wrapped around her knees. The cold from the steel floor seeped into her bones. Gwen paced in a tight loop, five steps to the corner, turn, five steps back.

They hadn’t spoken much that day.

What was there to say?

The footage still played in her head. The van. The cameras. The way they’d fled into the woods like fugitives. Harry’s face, unreadable. Peter’s arm around his shoulders. Gone, like smoke.

And then Harry’s voice. Cold. Inhuman.

“Comply with protocol, and your status may remain unchanged.”

MJ had flinched when she heard it—not because of the words, but because it didn’t sound like him. It sounded like something broken wearing Harry’s skin.

“I think he saw us,” Gwen said suddenly.

MJ blinked. “What?”

“Connors. Earlier.” Gwen stopped pacing. “He walked past. Didn’t look directly at me, but his step faltered. Like something was off. Like maybe he’s not… fully with them anymore.”

MJ’s throat tightened. “Do you think we could reach him?”

“I don’t know,” Gwen said. “But he hesitated. That’s more than anyone else has.”

They let the thought hang. Fragile. Dangerous. But it was something.

Then the hum changed. The lights buzzed a second longer than usual. MJ’s eyes flicked up.

“Did you hear that?”

Gwen nodded. She was already moving toward the glass.

A shadow passed the hallway.

Not Connors.

Taller. Stiffer.

Norman Osborn.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t glance inside.

But his presence was enough to freeze the room.

MJ’s hands curled into fists.

Gwen took a step back.

“He’s planning something,” Gwen whispered. “He always is.”

MJ didn’t reply.

She was staring at the place where Harry had stood in that footage. The one who’d left without looking back.

“Whatever he’s doing,” she said finally, “I hope he remembers who he is before it’s too late.”

- STARK SAFEHOUSE – SECOND FLOOR STUDY – NIGHT -

The rest of the team had settled for the night. Somewhere downstairs, the low murmur of conversation drifted in waves—Peter’s voice, Bucky’s quiet tone, maybe even Yelena still pacing out a plan. But up here, it was quiet.

Otto leaned against the window frame, glasses pushed up onto his head, one hand wrapped loosely around a mug gone cold. His eyes didn’t leave the man sitting in the armchair by the fireplace.

Norman Osborn—this Norman—stared into the flames like they had answers buried somewhere in them. His jaw was tight. The tension in his shoulders didn’t let up, even as the firelight cast soft shadows across his face.

Otto watched him for a long moment before speaking.

“What’s going on in your mind, love?”

Norman didn’t look up.

Didn’t answer.

Otto sighed and crossed the room slowly, lowering himself into the armchair opposite his.

“Norm,” he said more gently, “you’re planning something. I know that look. You’ve got a hundred thoughts spinning in your head, and only three you’ll actually say out loud.”

Still, no answer. Just the clench of Norman’s jaw.

Otto tilted his head.

“Let me in.”

That did it.

Norman’s fingers flexed slightly, resting on the armrest like he was trying to anchor himself. When he finally looked up, his eyes were tired—but not cold.

“I saw the other one,” he said quietly.

Otto blinked. “The other version of you?”

Norman nodded once. “He’s twisted. But focused. Like a blade sharpened in the wrong direction.”

A pause.

“I know how he thinks. I know what he wants.”

Otto leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

“And that scares you?”

Norman didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

Otto reached out, warm hand covering Norman’s.

“You’re not him. You could have been—but you made different choices. You are making different choices.”

A flicker of something passed across Norman’s face. Regret, maybe. Or guilt.

Otto added, softer this time: “You’re not alone in this. Not anymore.”

Norman looked at their hands.

Then finally—finally—his fingers closed around Otto’s.

Norman didn’t speak. Just kept his eyes on Otto, like the words he wanted to say were too big for his throat.

Otto leaned in slowly.

There was no rush. No fire. Just that familiar gravity between them—earned over time, settled into the bones.

Their foreheads touched.

A breath shared.

Then Otto tilted his head just slightly, and their lips met—slow, certain, careful.

It wasn’t a kiss born of desperation. It wasn’t hungry or wild.

It was steady.

Like a promise.

Norman sighed into it—something uncoiling in his chest, like maybe, for once, he wasn’t bracing for impact.

Otto pulled back just far enough to speak, voice low and warm.

“Come to bed.”

Norman hesitated for a second. Then nodded.

He followed Otto out of the room, their fingers still loosely intertwined.

And behind them, the fire flickered—its glow reflecting in the empty mugs, the quiet bookshelves, the world that—for tonight, at least—had not fallen apart.

Chapter 35: A Supply Run

- STARK SAFEHOUSE – KITCHEN – MORNING -

The sun rose slow and pale over the treetops, filtering through the warped glass of the safehouse windows. Dust danced lazily in the beams of light. The kitchen smelled like burnt toast and instant coffee—familiar, even if nothing else was.

Peter stood at the edge of the counter, rubbing sleep from his eyes, hoodie askew, hair a disaster. The mug in his hand read World’s Okayest Avenger. He wasn’t sure who it belonged to. He hadn’t asked.

Bucky leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, watching the coffee drip like it might hold the answer to all their problems. Across from him, Yelena sat perched on the counter, peeling an apple with a knife that looked far too sharp for breakfast.

Sam Wilson was the only one with real posture. He had a notepad open in front of him, pen in hand, already outlining the next phase like this was any other mission. Like he hadn’t just watched multiversal physics fold in on itself the night before.

Tony’s AI flickered faintly on the small projector embedded in the wall. Watching. Listening. Occasionally offering snark.

Peter 2 and Peter 3 sat at the dining table, heads bowed together over a crude floor plan of Oscorp’s lower facility levels. A red pen had already leaked over one corner.

Melina walked in with a full plate of eggs, ignoring the chaos like it was background noise. Alexei followed a moment later with half a waffle in one hand and a grin that didn’t match the tension in his shoulders.

Norman and Otto hadn’t come down yet.

Peter glanced toward the stairwell, then back at the room.

“Alright,” Sam said, flipping a page. “We need gear. Disguises. Transport. And a way in that doesn’t scream ‘multiversal Avengers fan club.’”

“Hard to miss with him,” Yelena muttered, jerking her chin toward Peter 3, who had just knocked over his orange juice.

“Oops.”

Peter 3 offered a sheepish smile. “Still getting used to the team dynamic.”

Peter 2 sipped from a thermos. “Some things don’t change.”

Bucky stepped forward, voice steady.

“I’ll stay here. Train with Peter.”

Peter raised a brow. “Me?”

“You need to be ready,” Bucky said. “If it comes to it—if Harry’s still under—”

Peter looked away.

The sentence didn’t need to be finished.

Sam nodded slowly. “We move at 1800 hours. Tomorrow.”

Yelena stood, grabbing her jacket. “I’ll go with Melina and Alexei. We’ll find a van. Clothes. Maybe a miracle.”

Melina nodded once. “Discreet. Quiet. Outskirts only.”

Peter 2 tapped the blueprint.

“We’ll stay here. Watch for shifts in Oscorp’s satellite network. If they increase the guard or move the girls again, we’ll know.”

Tony flickered beside the map. “And I’ll keep building redundancies. That new suit isn’t finished yet, Parker.”

Peter half-smiled. “Story of my life.”

Sam looked at the clock.

“Alright. Let’s get moving.”

Chairs scraped. Boots thudded. The quiet buzz of mission prep settled over them like armor.

As the team filtered out, Peter lingered behind, mug still warm in his hands.

The day had started.

And tomorrow, they’d risk everything.

- STARK SAFEHOUSE – DRIVEWAY – LATE MORNING -

The car was way too sleek for this group.

All black, chrome accents, tinted windows that screamed either mob boss or influencer with a yacht. The kind of vehicle that said do not touch me—which, of course, meant Alexei had touched it. And hotwired it. And driven it back like a trophy.

He leaned casually against the hood, arms folded, grin smug.

“Found her outside a golf club,” he announced. “Driver went in for a sandwich. Never came back.”

Melina didn’t blink. “You stole a BMW?”

Alexei looked deeply offended. “Please. I stole a statement.”

Yelena circled the car slowly, unimpressed. “This is going to get us shot before we even hit the highway.”

“Or respected,” Alexei offered.

“Or both.”

Norman arrived with Otto at his side, both pausing at the sight of the car. Otto lifted an eyebrow behind his glasses.

“You’re certain this wasn’t a diplomat’s ride?”

“Only if he forgot to lock it,” Alexei replied cheerfully.

Peter stood on the porch, arms crossed, watching it all unfold. “You couldn’t just… borrow a minivan?”

Yelena shrugged. “This team’s not built for subtle.”

Bucky stepped up beside Peter, sipping his coffee. “We’re going to end up on five different watchlists.”

Peter didn’t look away from the car. “Pretty sure we already are.”

Sam stepped out with a notepad, glancing at the car with open disdain. “Alright. Since we’re apparently committing felonies before noon, can we at least agree on a split?”

Yelena nodded. “Melina, Alexei, and I take the warehouse depot north of the city. Old contacts. Some still owe favors.”

Otto stepped forward, map in hand. “Norman and I will head to the outskirts. I know a discreet tailor—at least, in our universe. If he’s here too, he won’t ask questions. Especially not for the right price.”

Sam handed over burner phones. “Check in every thirty minutes. If you’re late—don’t be.”

Alexei swung into the driver’s seat. “Shotgun’s open for the morally ambiguous.”

Otto climbed in next, Norman behind him with the ease of a man who looked far too much like someone people wanted dead. Yelena took the back, tossing a duffel over the seat.

Melina paused by the window, eyes serious. “We’ll be back by 15:00. No deviations.”

Peter gave her a nod.

The car purred to life like it knew it didn’t belong there.

Then it peeled off down the dirt road—too clean, too fast, too damn obvious.

Peter turned to Bucky, arms still crossed.

“Do you ever get used to this?”

Bucky didn’t even look at him.

“No.”

——-

- OUTSKIRTS – ROADSIDE TURN-OFF – LATE MORNING -

The stolen car rolled to a slow stop off a narrow service road just beyond the city’s edge. It looked like something from a luxury catalog—too sleek, too clean. Definitely not Alexei’s style.

But it ran like a dream.

The city had faded behind them. Now it was long stretches of cracked pavement, roadside trees, and the occasional gas station that looked like it hadn’t seen a customer since the Cold War.

Otto adjusted the lapel of his coat, glancing at the map in his hand. “Domenico Vellani. If he’s here, he’ll be exactly where I remember.”

Yelena leaned forward between the seats, resting her chin on the back of Melina’s shoulder as she glanced toward Norman. “Try not to scare him.”

Norman’s mouth twitched into something that wanted to be a smile but missed the mark. “I’m not the scary one anymore.”

Melina didn’t look away from the road ahead. “You’re still a liability.”

He chuckled under his breath. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Alexei turned left, tires crunching gravel as they pulled onto a narrow lane hidden behind a rusted signpost. The GPS would’ve claimed it didn’t exist. But Otto sat up straighter, nodding.

“Here.”

The SUV rolled to a stop in front of a squat brick building—windowless, paint peeling, utterly unremarkable. Which made it perfect.

Yelena popped the door and stepped out first, scanning the area. No eyes. No sound except the wind. She gave a sharp nod.

Otto turned to Norman as they stepped out.

“You’ll let me talk. Domenico doesn’t respond well to… posture.”

Norman raised a brow. “And what would you call yours?”

“Charisma.”

“Debatable.”

Alexei leaned out the window, grin lazy. “We’ll meet back here in three hours. If you’re not dead, we’ll buy you ice cream.”

Melina rolled her eyes. “Ignore him.”

Yelena added, deadpan, “We won’t wait for bodies.”

The door slammed shut behind them, and the SUV peeled off down the road, leaving Otto and Norman standing alone beneath the overcast sky.

The tailor’s shop waited just ahead.

Otto adjusted his cuffs, gave Norman’s hand a squeeze.

“Ready to become someone else?”

Norman exhaled slowly, eyeing the door.

“Let’s see if he can make me look like someone worth trusting.”

—

Yelena leaned her head against the window as the city thinned, rows of warehouses coming into view. Concrete, rust, steel.

“Next stop?”

Alexei grinned. “Our kind of place.”

He reached into the glovebox and pulled out a folded slip of paper. A scrawled address. Cyrillic handwriting.

Melina read it, then murmured, “Менеджер все еще работает там?” (Is the manager still working there?)

“Если он не умер от скуки.” (If he didn’t die of boredom.)

Yelena smirked. “У него был самый плохой чай.” (He had the worst tea.)

“Still better than American coffee,” Alexei muttered, taking a sharp turn toward the side road.

The warehouse loomed ahead—familiar, industrial, and above all, quiet.

Exactly what they needed.

——

- WAREHOUSE – OFFICE – LATE MORNING -

The air inside was thick with dust and oil, the sharp tang of metal cutting through it like a memory. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, some working, some not. Old crates lined the back walls—half-labeled, half-forgotten. A fan spun lazily in the corner, doing absolutely nothing.

Yelena pushed open the inner door with her shoulder. Melina followed, precise as ever. Alexei ducked slightly as he stepped inside—he always made small spaces feel smaller.

Behind the battered desk sat a man in his fifties, grey creeping into his beard, a cigarette half-smoked between his fingers. His boots were on the table. His name—Кирилл—was carved into the desk, knife marks decades old.

He didn’t look up right away.

“Мы ищем кое-что… нестандартное,” Melina said evenly. (We’re looking for something… unorthodox.)

Kirill’s eyes lifted slowly. He recognized her. And more importantly—he didn’t ask questions.

“Размеры?” (Sizes?)

Yelena tossed a folded scrap of paper onto the desk.

“Есть.” (Got it.)

Kirill took a drag of his cigarette and scanned the list. His brow lifted faintly at some of the notes—‘high stretch,’ ‘reinforced seams,’ ‘van interior color match’—but again, no questions.

“You pay extra for time,” he said in English, gruff but functional.

Melina nodded. “Double. No trail.”

Kirill crushed the cigarette in the tray. “One hour.”

He stood, cracked his back with an audible pop, and disappeared into the rear inventory room with the list still in hand.

Yelena exhaled and sat on the edge of a crate. Alexei leaned against a beam, arms crossed.

“Reminds me of Budapest,” she muttered.

Melina raised a brow. “Everything reminds you of Budapest.”

“I know. It’s the trauma.”

Alexei grinned. “Still better than my last mission with him.” He jerked a thumb toward the door they came through.

Yelena snorted. “He bought a tank. Without asking.”

Melina smirked faintly, but her eyes stayed focused, watching the back door.

They had the time. Not much, but enough.

Enough to get what they needed.

And hopefully enough to still make it out alive.

——

- DOMiNICO VERANI TAILORING -

The bell above the door let out a gentle chime as Otto stepped in first, holding the door for Norman. The air smelled of cedarwood, pressed wool, and faint notes of cologne aged into the walls.

It was a quiet place. Hidden. Still. The kind of shop that hadn’t been listed on any map in twenty years—but still existed because its owner chose to.

From the back room, a tall man stepped forward.

Domenico Vellani.

Silver hair, sharp eyes, posture that dared you to waste his time. He wore a navy vest and tailor’s tape looped around his neck, sleeves rolled with deliberate precision.

His eyes flicked from Otto to Norman—and stopped.

A pause.

A squint.

Then:

“Well,” Domenico said slowly, “either you’re Norman Osborn’s lost twin, or I’ve had far too much espresso.”

Norman didn’t blink. “That depends who you ask.”

“I don’t ask questions.” Domenico folded his arms. “Not anymore.”

Otto stepped forward. “We’re here for a suit. Quietly.”

Domenico looked him over—longer this time.

“You’re not from here.”

It wasn’t a question.

Otto didn’t answer. Didn’t confirm, didn’t deny.

Domenico didn’t press.

Instead, he nodded once toward the back. “Fitting room’s through there, darling. But just so you know, I don’t do spandex, alien polymers, or wings. But if you want to look like power without smelling like politics but still glamorous —I can help.”

—

- FITTING ROOM – MOMENTS LATER -

Norman stood still in front of a full-length mirror. Domenico circled him like a hawk—pinning fabric, adjusting seams. The jacket was near-black, tailored to perfection. Subtle. Imposing.

Otto leaned against the wall, arms crossed, silent.

Norman’s reflection stared back at him.

Not quite the man he used to be.

But close.

“You wear this like it’s familiar,” Domenico muttered, smoothing the collar.

“It is,” Norman said quietly.

“Then I hope you left whoever wore it last somewhere far behind.”

Otto’s jaw tightened—but he said nothing.

Norman only replied, “That’s the plan.”

Domenico didn’t look up. “Good. Because this suit doesn’t carry ghosts. Just impressions.”

He clipped the last thread, brushing his hands down the front.

“It fits.”

Norman looked at himself. Still.

Then:

“I look like him.”

But he was too quiet.

Otto caught it instantly. The slight hitch in his breath. The way his fingers brushed too long at the button of his cuff, hesitating. Like the weight of the suit was heavier than it should’ve been.

Otto stepped forward, tone low. Gentle.

“You don’t have to become him to fight him.”

Norman’s eyes met his in the mirror.

“I know,” he murmured.

Otto nodded once. Just enough. Enough to say: I see you.

Domenico pinned the last seam, clucking softly.

“You two are exhausting,” he said, stepping back. “All this tension and glowering and shared trauma. Honestly—”

He dropped the tape measure into his pocket and smirked.

“ … thank god for that. Because you two? The tension is… chef’s kiss.”

Otto snorted. Norman actually let out something close to a laugh—quiet and sharp, almost shocked from his own mouth.

Domenico smirked knowingly.

“Oh, don’t worry. You wear guilt like silk, darling. It drapes beautifully.”

He stepped back, hands on his hips, admiring his own work.

Norman glanced at Otto.

Otto gave a half-smile, small and real.

“I love the gays.”

Norman blinked. “I’m not—”

“Oh honey.” Domenico patted his shoulder. “You’re whatever that is. And it’s couture.”

Otto snorted behind his hand.

Norman didn’t argue again.

Then Domenico held out his hand for payment. “No names. No records.”

Otto handed him a small wad of untraceable bills.

“Pleasure doing business,” Domenico said.

They turned to leave.

“Gentlemen—” he added from behind them. “Try not to ruin it. Blood doesn’t wash out of wool.”

Norman paused in the doorway.

Then, over his shoulder:

“Then I’ll aim for the throat.”

——

- SIDE STREET – OUTSKIRTS OF THE CITY – AFTERNOON -

The sky hung low, overcast and heavy with the kind of quiet that pressed in around the edges. A sleek black van idled by the curb, clearly not bought. Or borrowed. Definitely stolen.

The passenger window rolled down.

Yelena leaned out, sunglasses perched on her head like a crown of casual menace.

“Gentlemen,” she called. “Your chariot awaits.”

Otto opened the shop door, holding it for Norman, who stepped out—suit sharp, tie adjusted, expression unreadable.

Melina sat behind the wheel. Alexei had already taken the backseat, arms crossed, one boot on the dashboard like he owned the place.

“You look like you’re about to rob a gala,” Alexei muttered, glancing at Norman’s attire.

“Good,” Norman replied, sliding in beside him. “Let’s hope they think so too.”

Otto followed, nodding once to Domenico—who stood in the doorway of his tailor shop, arms folded, a smirk playing at his lips.

“Give him hell,” Domenico called. “And for god’s sake—don’t wrinkle it.”

The door slammed shut. The van peeled off down the narrow street.

Chapter 36: Let Down and Hanging Around

Notes:

I love Radiohead. And especially this song. Not because it is flooding TikTok right now. But because it explains what can’t be said.

TW: mentions of self harm. Stay save. Or try to.

- STARK SAFEHOUSE – BACK FIELD – LATE AFTERNOON-

The sun was trying to burn through the haze. Thin light spilled over the clearing behind the Stark safehouse, illuminating dry grass and broken training dummies from another lifetime.

Peter stood ten feet back, hoodie stripped to his t-shirt, hair damp with sweat. His breathing was fast, but not panicked. Controlled. Focused.

Across from him, Bucky moved like water—easy, silent, deadly.

The fight wasn’t real. Not today. But it could’ve been.

Peter dodged low, then pivoted. His footing was off, and Bucky didn’t hesitate. He swept Peter’s legs from under him, catching the younger man’s shoulder before he hit the ground too hard.

“Too wide,” Bucky said simply, offering a hand.

Peter took it. Groaned as he stood.

“I’m not used to fighting someone who doesn’t throw monologues at me mid-fight.”

Bucky raised a brow. “You want me to start quoting Hydra doctrine while I hit you?”

Peter gave a tired half-smile. “Please don’t.”

They reset. Again.

Peter adjusted his stance. Looser. Quieter.

“You’re thinking about him too much,” Bucky said after a pause.

Peter stilled.

Bucky didn’t elaborate. He didn’t have to.

Peter’s voice was low. “I have to be ready.”

“You’re already ready,” Bucky replied. “But this—this is you trying to train guilt out of your muscles.”

Peter looked down.

Then: “If we can’t reach him… if he’s gone—”

“He’s not.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

Peter looked up. Met his gaze.

Bucky’s voice was even, but soft.

“Because I’ve been where he is.”

Before Peter could answer, the sound of a van pulling up echoed from the front of the house. Tires on gravel.

Peter turned toward the sound, squinting. He saw the edge of a black van pull up by the front of the house, sleek and freshly acquired. The side door slid open.

Melina stepped out first. Then Alexei. Then Otto, adjusting his sleeves.

And Norman.

Peter’s breath caught in his throat. Just a flicker.

Norman wore the suit like it belonged to someone else. Maybe it did. His posture was stiff—measured—but it fit too well. Too perfectly.

Peter’s stomach turned.

Bucky noticed. He didn’t say anything. Just clapped Peter lightly on the shoulder.

“Come on,” he said. “We should help unload.”

- STARK SAFEHOUSE – FRONT DRIVEWAY – MOMENTS LATER -

The van’s engine ticked as it cooled.

Alexei opened the rear doors with a grunt, hauling a crate onto his shoulder like it weighed nothing. Yelena climbed out beside him, hair wind-tossed and eyes sharp behind mirrored sunglasses.

“Anyone miss us?” she said, grinning.

Peter forced a smile, grabbing a bag from the back. “Only when the coffee ran out.”

Otto handed down a black duffel. “You’ll like the tailor,” he said. “He was alarmingly nonchalant.”

Yelena snorted. “He also made Norman look like an evil CEO at a fashion gala.”

Norman, now by the porch, raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Peter tried not to stare.

He failed.

The others laughed, the moment passing easily between them. But Peter lingered behind as the others started hauling supplies inside.

Bucky leaned close.

“Walk with me.”

Peter hesitated.

Then nodded.

- STARK SAFEHOUSE – WOODED PATH – TWILIGHT -

They moved past the edge of the field, down a narrow trail only half-cleared of brush. The trees bent inward. The light dimmed.

Peter shoved his hands in his pockets. “You said you’d show me something.”

Bucky just kept walking.

They stopped at a clearing.

And there it was.

Tucked between the trees, barely visible unless you knew where to look—was a small stone half-circle. Embedded plaques. Names. No grand designs. Just presence.

Steve Rogers.

Natasha Romanoff.

James Rhodes.

And beneath that—

An etching of the shield, worn down with age. Someone had left a bundle of red flowers beneath it. Maybe recently. Maybe years ago.

Peter stared.

“Tony came here,” Bucky said quietly. “More than once. Happy kept it up after. Never let it fall apart. Adding names. People who gave their lives for others.”

Peter swallowed. “Feels like it shouldn’t exist. Like the world moved on.”

Bucky nodded.

“It did. But we didn’t.”

Peter knelt, fingers brushing the newer plaques that read Tony Stark and May Parker. The names looked too small. Too final.

“I don’t know how to let go of people,” he said softly. “And I don’t want to lose him too.”

“I know,” Bucky said.

Peter stood slowly, blinking back the weight behind his eyes. “It’s just—he said he’d try. He promised.”

Bucky looked at the markers. His voice dipped low.

“Steve did too.”

Peter looked over.

And Bucky met his gaze.

“I loved him, you know.”

It came out simple. No drama. No need to justify it.

“I don’t think he ever really knew. Not the way I wanted him to. Not the way you hope someone might when the war’s over.”

Peter’s voice cracked. “He chose someone else.”

Bucky smiled faintly. “So did you. Once.”

A long silence.

Peter’s mind slipping back to MJ, somone he lost, but could let go of. He didn’t think he could let go of him though.

Then—

Bucky pulled something from his jacket. A folded envelope. The edges were worn, like it had been carried close.

“He gave me this,” Bucky said. “Told me to give it to you when the timing felt right.”

Peter took it slowly.

Recognized the handwriting instantly.

Harry’s.

He clutched it like it might vanish if he breathed wrong.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Bucky just nodded.

And for a while, they stood in the stillness.

Two men with too many ghosts.

Trying to hold on.

Trying to let go.

Trying to save the ones they still could.

——-

- OSCORP – EXECUTIVE HALLWAY – DAY -

The hallway was pristine. Polished floors, mirrored walls, and the low hum of controlled air—everything about Oscorp’s upper level screamed sterile perfection.

Harry walked it like a ghost.

The suit fit. The stride matched. No one stopped him.

He passed a group of techs near the lab doors. One of them nodded stiffly.

“Miss Osborn,” they said.

Harry didn’t flinch. Didn’t correct.

He just gave the smallest nod and kept walking.

If they saw him—really saw him—they would’ve known.

But they didn’t.

To them, he was the shadow of someone who no longer existed. Or worse, someone who never did.

And then—

“Harriett,” came a voice behind him. Sharper. Louder. Intentional.

Norman’s.

Harry stopped mid-step.

Norman was standing down the hall, flanked by two Hydra agents. His voice carried easily.

“I’d like to see you in Conference Three after this, dear. You remember the one. The room your mother liked.”

Harry turned slightly, just enough to show he’d heard. But not enough to meet his eyes.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t breathe.

Norman smiled thinly and walked on. The agents followed.

Harry remained frozen in place, pulse drumming in his ears like a metronome gone wild.

Then—

A voice behind him. Lower. Tentative.

“Mr. Osborn?”

Harry turned, startled by the shift.

It was Dr. Connors. Clipboard in hand, coat wrinkled like he’d been working too long in too many rooms.

But his eyes were clear.

Clearer than they should’ve been.

Connors looked at him—at him—with something close to concern.

“You alright?” he asked gently. “Didn’t seem like that was your name.”

Harry stared.

Just for a second, the armor slipped.

His lips parted, but no sound came.

Connors nodded, like he didn’t need the words.

He tapped his fingers once on the clipboard, eyes kind.

“Take care of yourself, Mr. Osborn.”

Then he walked away.

Harry stood there in the empty hallway.

Still misnamed. Still misunderstood.

But someone had seen him.

And for the first time in days, he remembered what his name felt like when spoken with intent.

Not power.

But care.

———

- OSCORP – OBSIDIAN CONFERENCE SUITE – NIGHT -

The lights were dimmed, sterile, humming faintly in the silence. Norman Osborn stood at the head of the long obsidian table, its reflective surface catching the green glow of the interface screens behind him. The room reeked of control—precise temperature, measured lighting, no wasted movement. Even the air seemed filtered for obedience.

Harry stood at the opposite end.

Suit perfect. Shoulders squared. Expression blank.

Not a single hair out of place.

Norman circled him slowly, like a craftsman admiring his own creation. The silence between them stretched long and taut, broken only by the low hiss of data uploading behind the walls.

“You know,” Norman began, voice calm, conversational, “when I perfected the serum, I thought of you.”

Harry didn’t answer.

Didn’t blink.

Norman stepped closer, gesturing faintly toward the screen. Green aerosol graphics. Mind-mapping overlays. A skeletal schematic of the new delivery drones—sleek and armed.

“I learned from them. Hydra was never subtle. Always brute force. But fear,” he smiled thinly, “fear is elegant.”

A pause.

He studied Harry, gaze moving over him slowly—too slowly.

“You wear the suit well,” he said.

Still, Harry said nothing.

Norman stepped closer.

Close enough that his voice dropped to something intimate.

“But it’s a shame. When I look at you now, it’s like glancing into a mirror. A mirror that shouldn’t exist.”

His hand reached up—fingers brushing Harry’s lapel.

Harry didn’t flinch.

Norman’s eyes narrowed, voice sharpening like a scalpel.

“I would have preferred to see you in a dress.”

The air stilled.

He let it hang there—heavy, deliberate.

Harry’s jaw tightened. Barely.

Norman stepped back.

“You were supposed to be beautiful. Controlled. A legacy reborn.”

He turned away then, the cruelty in his voice cooling into something worse—dismissiveness.

“But they took that from you.”

From me.

Harry remained silent.

Not because he agreed.

But because silence was safer than showing the fracture.

Norman’s voice floated back as he walked toward the panel.

“The girls will be moved tomorrow. You’ll oversee the transfer. Quietly. Emotionlessly. As you’ve been trained.”

He glanced back once.

“And if they cry, don’t comfort them. That’s not your job anymore.”

Then he was gone.

The door hissed shut behind him.

And Harry stood alone in the silence he used to call power.

——

- OSCORP – EAST WING – HALLWAY – NIGHT -

Harry walked quickly.

The sound of his dress shoes echoed in measured steps along the polished floor. Too clean. Too empty. The kind of silence that made even breath feel too loud.

His jacket clung too tightly across the shoulders. The fabric too smooth. Norman had chosen this cut. He always had.

Two Hydra agents passed him near the elevator. One nodded politely, the other didn’t even try to hide the smirk.

“Evening, Miss Osborn.”

Harry didn’t stop.

Didn’t flinch.

He kept walking like he hadn’t heard it.

But something inside him sank. Like a pit opening in his chest, swallowing everything it hadn’t already taken.

⸻

- OSCORP – FORMER RESIDENTIAL QUARTERS – NIGHT -

He locked the door behind him the second he was inside.

Hands still steady.

Too steady.

He took a breath. Then another.

The room was dim, sterile in its quiet. A few personal items remained—unfamiliar now. Someone else’s lavender shampoo still clung faintly to the bathroom air. MJ’s old scent, filtered through lab-grade ventilation.

Harry didn’t turn on the main lights.

He moved by habit, hoodie sleeves pulled past his knuckles, a faint red line visible where the cuff had slipped too low. The sharp edge he’d tucked in the drawer earlier was still there. Waiting. But he didn’t reach for it.

Not yet.

Instead, he sat down at the old digital piano.

The one Norman had insisted on installing once, long ago—some sterile reminder of culture and poise. A relic more than a gift. It looked like it was still in use. Probably by Mary Jane. Of course Norman would force her to learn it - if she haven’t chosen to do so herself, it’s a beautiful instrument.

He sat. Not straight. Not slouched.

Just… there.

And then, slowly, his fingers pressed the first chords.

Radiohead’s “Let Down.”

Muted, nearly soundless. The volume didn’t rise above a breath. But the shape of it—those notes, those chords—spoke louder than anything else in the room.

Transport. Motorways and tramlines. Starting and then stopping. Taking off and landing.

Harry played from memory.

He’d listened to it that long drive to the cabin it felt like it’s happened years ago—when the car had been cold and Peter had been asleep, head tilted against the window, unaware of the way the world looked through Harry’s eyes. The song had filled his chest like fog then.

Now it just felt like gravity.

The music wavered. His fingers slipped, once. But he caught the key again, grounding himself on it.

Don’t get sentimental. It always ends up drivel.

He didn’t sing. Just played. Quiet and low. Like his ribs might crack if he gave it volume.

He didn’t cry either.

That would have meant something was still soft enough to weep.

Instead, he pressed harder. Enough that the keys bit back.

One day I am gonna grow wings… a chemical reaction. Hysterical and useless…

The notes shook slightly under his touch.

And when the song faded—unresolved, unfinished—Harry sat there for a long time. Hands limp on the keys. Eyes staring at the far wall.

Then he stood.

And then the pressure snapped.

Harry ripped the blazer off, yanked the tie free with shaking fingers. The button-up followed, half undone, exposing the compression bandages beneath. The suit puddled on the floor like shed skin.

He stumbled toward the bathroom, fingers clawing at the drawer beneath the sink.

There. At the very back.

The glass shard he hadn’t thrown out.

He sat on the closed toilet lid, curled forward, pressing the heel of his palm into his eyes.

They called him Miss Osborn.
He called him “Harriett”
Whose was he if he wasn’t his own?

Like everything he’d clawed toward meant nothing. Like Norman had won.

Like he was gone.

His breath hitched.

The mirror across from him stared back, wide and brutal.

He held the shard in both hands.

Just to feel something.

Just to remind himself this body was still his.

One breath. Then another.

He dragged the glass lightly across the inside of his forearm—just enough to leave red behind.

Not deep. Just present.

His face didn’t change. No sound. No tears.

Just a long, sharp inhale.

He watched the line bloom like a red thread unraveling.

A reminder.

I’m still here.

He repeated it once, softly, like a prayer.

Then he dropped the shard into the sink.

And slid to the floor.

Shaking. Silent. Alone.

- STARK SAFEHOUSE – PETER’S ROOM – NIGHT -

The room was dim. The lamp on the desk flickered once, then settled into a low hum.

Peter sat on the edge of the bed, hunched forward, hoodie sleeves tugged over his hands. His hair was still damp from the shower, but he hadn’t moved in a while. Not since the lights dimmed across the compound. Not since the others turned in for the night.

Not since the ache in his chest started humming again—quiet, but insistent.

Like a webline pulled too tight.

He stared at the floor, at the worn spot where Harry had stood the night before he left.

The hoodie Peter wore still smelled faintly like him.

He swallowed hard.

Something was wrong. Not just fear. Not just worry.

Wrong.

The kind of wrong you couldn’t name—but felt in your bones.

Peter stood slowly. Crossed the room. Opened the drawer by the bed.

The envelope was still there.

Tucked beneath a folded t-shirt, creased softly at the corners. Harry’s handwriting was sharp, deliberate, almost too neat for someone who never said what he meant out loud.

Peter hesitated.

Then opened it.

⸻

- The LETTER -

Pete—

If you’re reading this, it means the plan’s moving forward. Or maybe everything’s gone to hell already. Either way, I’m not beside you when I should be. I’m sorry for that.

There are going to be moments where you’ll wonder if I’ve changed sides. If I’ve disappeared inside all of this—Norman, Oscorp, the mask I have to wear to survive.

And I want you to know something: I haven’t forgotten you.

Not your hands. Not your voice. Not the way you say my name like it matters.

I left because I had to. Because I’m the only one who can do this. Not because I wanted to. Never because I wanted to.

If I’m not who you remember when we meet again… remind me.

Say my name.

Say Har.

You’re the only one who ever made me feel like it meant something.

—H.

⸻

Peter held the letter to his chest.

He closed his eyes.

Felt the same ache return—this time sharper.

He didn’t cry. Not yet.

He just whispered into the quiet:

“I will.”

Then folded the letter.

And held it like it might bring Harry home.

——-
- STARK SAFEHOUSE – OBSERVATION LAB – 3:00 AM -

The lab buzzed with soft light and sharper purpose.

Tony’s AI flickered across the holoscreen, cross-referencing neural sync protocols while Peter 2 calibrated the latest servo alignment on the suit. His movements were practiced—steady, methodical. Like a man who had learned to hold both grief and duty in the same breath.

Peter 3 sat off to the side, legs drawn up, chin resting on his knees. His laptop glowed with Oscorp’s live feed—silent, fractured visuals from the security grid they’d hacked earlier. Most of it was static or muted cameras. White rooms. Cold hallways.

Then—

A melody.

Barely audible beneath the static. A song he knew too well.

The shape of it lodged in his chest before he could stop it. The lyrics unfurled in his mind without permission.
Transport, motorways and tramlines…
Starting and then stopping…

He didn’t want to remember.
But he did.

Vinyl records in a too-clean apartment. The sound of Harry laughing through a cough. Gwen humming along in the background, dancing like she could outrun gravity.

He had seen the Radiohead album—OK Computer—on Harry’s shelf once. As Peter. And again, later, as Spider-Man. When Harry was dying. When the air in the room had smelled like antiseptic and bitter tea.

And now—now—the song was playing in a different world. In this world. From another Harry.

Peter 3 didn’t realize he’d stopped breathing until the clatter jolted him back.

A sharp sound.
Metal against porcelain.
Then—
A sob.

Unfiltered. Human.

He leaned forward instinctively, adjusting the feed. But the audio blinked out.

Cut.

The device had been unplugged.

The feed froze—still, unblinking, as if even the building knew to turn its face away.

Peter 3 stared at the screen.

Unplugged.
Unpredictable.
Under.

A different kind of ache bloomed in his chest—one that hadn’t made room for years.

“Hey,” Peter 2 called gently. “You okay?”

Peter 3 didn’t answer right away.

He just kept looking at the screen. At the boy he couldn’t save, the girl he lost, and the second chance slipping through his fingers like a ghost made of music.

Then he nodded, once.

And whispered, “We have to move faster.”

Peter 2 heard. He crossed the room slowly, careful not to spook whatever thread was holding the moment together. He glanced at the frozen feed on Peter 3’s laptop, then back at him—watching the younger man sit there, shoulders taut, jaw clenched like grief had its hands wrapped around his throat.

Peter 2 sat beside him without a word. Close, but not crowding.

“You recognized it,” he said softly.

Peter 3 gave a tight nod. “He used to play it. The other Harry. My Harry.”

He didn’t explain which one. He didn’t have to.

“I thought I was past this,” Peter 3 said after a pause. “Past the dreams, the guilt. I thought… it was just me that couldn’t save him. That it ended there. That if I gave him my blood, he would turn himself into …”

Peter 2 studied him for a long moment, then said, “You never stop feeling it. But you learn to use it. Let it teach you where not to let go.”

Silence again.

Then Peter 2 continued voice soft: “Do you think he’s still in there?”

“You mean his Harry?” Peter 3 asked.

Peter 2 shook his head. “His Harry. And yours.”

A pause.

Then: “His - I hope. As for mine? I’m not sure, he’s been in there for such a long time. Ravencroft I mean.”

Peter 2 blinked.

“You visited him once. You could go again. Bring the song. Let it reach whatever’s still buried in him.”

Peter 3 looked over at him - loss of words - then:

“You think there’s something more going on between them?”

Peter 2 smiled faintly, the kind that barely touched his eyes. “He hasn’t said it out loud yet. Not really. But he doesn’t look for people that hard unless he loves them.”

A long, thin breath left Peter 3’s lungs. “God. What is it about us and impossible love stories?”

Peter 2 laughed softly. “Must be something in the mask.”

“Maybe there is a place in the multiverse where Harry gets to be at peace . I hope it’s this one.”

The moment stretched, warm despite the ache.

Then the lab door hissed open.

Sam stepped inside, holding a clipboard and a grim expression.

“We move at eighteen-hundred,” he said. “Briefing’s in 12 hours. Rest up. It’s game time.”

Peter 2 stood slowly, nodding.

Peter 3 rose beside him, quieter, but with something newly set behind his eyes. Not just grief now.

Resolve.

Chapter 37: The Armor We Wear

- STARK SAFEHOUSE – COMMON ROOM – EARLY MORNING -

The sun broke through the tree line in fractured beams, spilling into the corners of the safehouse like it didn’t know what kind of day it was walking into.

Everything was quiet.

Not peaceful. Just… waiting.

A mug clinked against the counter. Melina stirred a pot of coffee, her movements automatic. She didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. She’d been awake since before dawn.

Yelena sat at the kitchen table, hoodie pulled over her head like armor. She sipped from her chipped mug in silence, one leg pulled up into the chair. The glow from her phone screen lit up her face—no texts, no alerts. Just a quiet check to see if the world still existed.

Alexei snored faintly from the couch, a blanket barely covering his massive frame. His boots were still on.

Sam entered next. No jacket. Just sweats and that stiff kind of posture that said he hadn’t slept, either.

“Everyone up?” he asked, voice low.

Yelena glanced up. “Getting there.”

Melina poured a second mug. Handed it to him without looking.

“Where’s Peter?” Sam asked.

“Which one?” Yelena said dryly.

Melina answered, “Our Peter. The one who didn’t sleep last night.”

Sam nodded.

⸻

- STARK SAFEHOUSE – PETER’S ROOM – SAME TIME -

Peter sat on the edge of the bed, fully dressed, hands wrapped around Harry’s letter like it might still be warm. The suit was folded beside him. He hadn’t put it on yet.

There was something about the silence that didn’t feel restful. Like the house was holding its breath.

A knock.

Then Bucky’s voice, low but certain.

“Time.”

Peter stood slowly.

Grabbed the suit.

And walked toward the mirror.

——

- OSCORP – PRIVATE RESIDENTIAL QUARTERS – EARLY MORNING -

Harry woke to silence.

Not peace. Just the absence of conflict. The kind of quiet that settles in after surrender.

He sat up slowly, head heavy, body sore from too many nights spent fighting ghosts he couldn’t name.

The suit was laid out on the chair across from the bed—pressed, sterile, ready.

Black fabric. Crisp collar. Norman’s preferred cut.

Harry didn’t look at it at first.

Instead, he moved to the sink, splashed water on his face, stared into the mirror.

There were faint marks beneath his eyes. A line of red still healing on his arm.

He didn’t flinch at his own reflection.

He was past that.

He reached for the suit.

⸻

- STARK SAFEHOUSE – PETER’S ROOM – SAME TIME -

Peter stood in front of the mirror, shirtless, the letter folded neatly on the dresser beside him.

The new suit waited beside him—sleek, darker than his old one. Stark tech built into the webbing. Reinforced for whatever came next.

His fingers brushed the emblem on the chestplate before pulling it on.

No hesitation.

Just the quiet rhythm of someone who knew this wasn’t for show anymore.

He adjusted the mask, held it in his hands for a moment longer.

A breath.

Then—on.

⸻

- OSCORP – HALLWAY OUTSIDE CONFERENCE ROOM – SAME TIME -

Harry fastened the last button.

The jacket hugged his frame. Perfect fit. Custom cut. Norman had made sure of it.

He didn’t look down.

Didn’t need to.

The mirror in the hallway caught him anyway.

He glanced at it—just once.

Norman’s voice, echoing in his skull: “It’s a shame. I would have preferred to see you in a dress.”

Harry held the reflection a moment longer.

Then turned away.

⸻

- STARK SAFEHOUSE – SPARE BEDROOM – SAME TIME -

Norman 2 stood in front of a mirror older than the house itself. His shirt was half-buttoned. The tailored suit Domenico had crafted for him lay across the bed like a dare.

He stared at it.

Then muttered under his breath, “This feels like penance.”

Otto’s voice floated from the hall. “No. It’s theater.”

Norman sighed.

Pulled the jacket on.

The cut was sharp. Sleek. Familiar. Too familiar.

He adjusted the collar slowly, met his own eyes in the mirror.

For a second, he didn’t know which Norman he saw.

Then he let the breath go.

⸻

- OSCORP – EXECUTIVE ELEVATOR – MOMENTS LATER -

Harry stood alone, descending toward the labs.

The suit was perfect.

Too perfect.

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

Just breathed.

Once.

Twice.

His hands curled at his sides.

Not fists.

Not yet.

⸻

- STARK SAFEHOUSE – MAIN ROOM – SAME MOMENT -

Peter stepped into the hall.

Bucky was waiting.

So was Sam.

He didn’t say a word.

Just nodded.

Behind him, Norman stepped out of the spare room. Otto followed, fixing his cufflinks.

Peter looked up—and froze.

Just for a moment.

Because for a split second—

He saw the wrong man in the right suit.

And it made his chest ache.

——-

- STARK SAFEHOUSE – BRIEFING ROOM – MORNING -

The table wasn’t meant for war planning.

But it bore the weight anyway.

Maps were spread out across its surface—printouts of Oscorp’s internal layouts, blueprints, surveillance stills, and scribbled annotations in three different handwritings. The Stark AI flickered above it all, highlighting key access points with glowing orange pulses.

Peter stood near the head of the table, fingers clenched around the edge.

He hadn’t spoken yet.

Norman 2 stood across from him, arms crossed, suit impeccable. Too impeccable. His hair was slicked back differently than usual. More severe. Closer to how he wore it.

Otto watched him from his seat with silent precision, eyes narrowing with every twitch in Norman’s jaw.

Yelena leaned against the far wall, flipping a knife between her fingers. Bucky stood beside her, arms folded. Sam reviewed the digital readout in front of him with a soldier’s calm, tapping the tablet occasionally.

Peter 2 was next to Otto, nodding along to the plan. Peter 3 hovered near the windows, eyes distant, but present.

Melina clicked her pen once.

Then again.

“Here’s how it breaks down,” Sam said, stepping forward. “We split into three units.”

He tapped the screen.

“Unit One infiltrates from below—access tunnel here, beneath the ventilation shaft. That’s Peter, qvelena, and me. Our job is to reach the central core and disable the security system, manually if needed.”

“Unit Two,” Melina continued, taking over, “comes in under false clearance. That’s Norman—our Norman—and Otto. You’ll pose as Norman Osborn and his top advisor, entering through the executive elevator. Your job is to gain access to the labs and isolate Dr. Connors. If we’re lucky, you can destabilize the mind-link serum from the inside.”

Norman exhaled. “And if we’re not lucky?”

“You improvise,” Melina said flatly. “But make sure you improvise like him.”

Norman’s jaw tightened.

Otto reached over, adjusted the lapel of Norman’s jacket gently.

“You’ll do fine,” he said. “You’ve lied before.”

Peter 3 cracked the smallest smile. Peter 2 gave Otto a knowing look.

Peter—their Peter—finally spoke.

“And Harry?”

The room stilled.

Sam answered. “If we find him, we don’t engage unless we have to. Not until Peter gives the signal.”

Peter nodded. His voice was soft. Final.

“I’ll handle him.”

Yelena didn’t look up. “You better.”

Peter 2 cleared his throat. “And Unit Three?”

“Extraction,” Bucky said. “That’s me, Alexei, Melina , and the Peters. We split once we breach the interior. I’ll cover Gwen and MJ if they’re held in the western sector. Yelena clears the backup route. Peter 3 follows Norman’s trail.”

Peter 3 lifted his chin. “Understood.”

Peter 2 looked at Peter 1.

“You ready for this?”

Peter’s voice was quiet.

“No. But I’m going anyway.”

Sam nodded. “We move at eighteen-hundred. Until then, eat, gear up, and get your heads clear.”

The group started to break. Quiet conversations. Tension vibrating beneath every movement.

Only Peter stayed behind.

Staring at the map.

Staring at the word written in the corner—CONTROL ROOM.

He touched the paper lightly.

And thought of Harry.

——

- OSCORP – ISOLATION WING – EARLY MORNING -

The lights were always on.

Not harsh. Just… wrong. Like the place didn’t know how to turn itself off.

Gwen sat on the edge of the cot, legs pulled up to her chest, the thin Oscorp-issued gown doing nothing to keep out the chill. Her eyes were open, but she wasn’t really looking at anything.

MJ paced.

Four steps. Turn. Four steps back.

She hadn’t slept. Not really. The floor creaked with every pass, but she didn’t care. The cameras above didn’t move, but that didn’t mean no one was watching.

“They moved the girl from Room 6,” MJ said. Her voice was sharp. Flat. “You didn’t hear her last night, did you?”

Gwen didn’t answer.

“They move them when they stop talking.”

Still, Gwen said nothing.

MJ finally stopped pacing. Walked to the wall. Knocked once.

Hollow.

“Someone’s going to come for us,” Gwen said quietly.

MJ turned. “You don’t know that.”

“Yes I do.”

MJ’s jaw clenched. “Even if they do, what’s left by then? They’re not hurting us. They’re just… showing us what happens to the ones who scream.”

Gwen blinked slowly. “Then we won’t scream.”

MJ sat beside her. Their shoulders touched.

“I hate this,” MJ whispered. “I hate that he calls it kindness. That he looks at us like he’s already written the ending.”

“We haven’t,” Gwen said. “We haven’t written it yet.”

For a moment—just a moment—they both stared at the door.

Like maybe it might open.

Like maybe someone still remembered.

Chapter 38: Everything Detachable

- STARK SAFEHOUSE – GARAGE – NOON -

There were a lot of things the team expected that morning.

A tactical vehicle? Maybe.
A Quinjet? Unlikely, but possible.
An unregistered Oscorp rover, reprogrammed by Otto and painted matte black? Even better.

What they did not expect… was this.

The van was hideous.

Military green. Rust spots. Some kind of griffin decal peeling off the side like it had been through five wars and a divorce. But the engine? Roaring.

Alexei stood beside it like a proud father. One foot on the bumper, arms crossed, grin wide.

“Behold,” he announced, sweeping one arm with theatrical flair, “our glorious getaway sled.”

“I call her Baba Yaga.”

Yelena groaned from the porch. “Please don’t name the vehicle.”

“I name what I love,” Alexei declared. “This one? She is strong. Reliable. Slight smell of gasoline and regret.”

Norman 2 stood a few feet away, blinking slowly. “This is the extraction vehicle?”

Alexei beamed. “Da.”

Peter 3 wandered up, biting back a grin. “Wait—does it have armor?”

“Improvised,” Alexei said proudly. “I welded kitchen pans to the underside. Very aerodynamic.”

Peter 2 raised an eyebrow. “That’s not how that works.”

Alexei slapped the side of the van. A panel fell off.

He didn’t react.

“Everything detachable. Makes it harder to track.”

Yelena muttered, “Makes it fall apart if you breathe on it.”

Peter 1 came around the corner just in time to hear Alexei yell: “GETAWAY SLED!”

He blinked. “Please tell me that’s not our actual—”

“It is,” Bucky said, sipping coffee behind him.

Peter sighed.

Yelena climbed in through the side door, knocking over three empty thermoses and a suspicious duffel bag full of explosives.

“This is a war crime waiting to happen.”

“This,” Alexei said, revving the engine, “is what freedom smells like.”

Otto passed by with a dry glance. “You people are insane.”

Peter 3 leaned into the window, grinning at Alexei. “Please tell me it has music.”

Alexei hit a button.

The Soviet national anthem blared from ancient speakers at full blast.

Yelena screamed.

Norman 2 winced like someone stabbed him.

Peter 1 just whispered, “Oh god.”

Peter 2 gave a slow, approving nod. “Now this feels like an Avengers mission.”

⸻

- STARK SAFEHOUSE – ARMORY ROOM – 15:30 -

The laughter didn’t follow them in.

Inside, everything was quieter.

Peter 1 pulled open a drawer and started sorting cartridges—web-shooters, impact gels, drones. He worked in silence, sleeves rolled, focus etched into the lines of his face.

Peter 3 stood nearby, fitting reinforced lenses into his mask. He didn’t speak either. Just looked at Peter once.

That was enough.

Across the room, Yelena strapped knives to her thighs like it was muscle memory. She adjusted her vest, then glanced at Melina, who was checking the remote detonator with cold precision.

“This place feels like a grave,” Yelena murmured.

Melina didn’t look up. “Then don’t die in it.”

Bucky stood in the corner, loading ammo into a modified Hydra pistol with steady hands. Every movement had weight. Memory. Intention.

Norman 2 sat near the door, adjusting the cufflinks of the suit Domenico had tailored for him. Otto knelt beside him, checking the communicator hidden beneath the collar.

“You good?” Otto asked.

Norman didn’t answer immediately.

Then, low: “I’ve worn worse masks.”

Otto smiled faintly. “Yes. But this time, you take it off when the curtain falls.”

Peter 2 entered last, quiet as always, a bundle of reinforced web cartridges under one arm.

He handed them to Peter 1.

“You’re not alone, kid,” he said softly.

Peter 1 met his eyes. “I know.”

And for a moment—just a moment—the room held steady.

Like maybe it could all work.

⸻

- STARK SAFEHOUSE – BRIEFING ROOM – 17:00 -

Everyone was in position.

No jokes this time. No nicknames. Just maps. Numbers. Eyes locked on the mission outline, the Stark AI flickering overhead.

Sam stood at the front, hands clasped.

“This is it,” he said. “We don’t get a second shot.”

He pointed at the display—Oscorp’s western compound.

“Eighteen-hundred hours. We hit from three angles. You’ve all got your entry points. Stay on comms. Stick to the plan. If the plan breaks—adapt.”

He looked at Peter.

Peter nodded once. “We’ll bring them home.”

Sam’s jaw tightened. “And if Norman gets in the way—”

Peter’s voice was steady. “Then I’ll handle him.”

One last beat.

Bucky checked his watch.

Alexei muttered, “Time to ride the sled.”

Yelena groaned.

Otto snorted.

Norman 2 stood.

And just like that—

The room emptied.

The mission had begun.

Chapter 39: Into The Fire

- OSCORP – MAIN CAMPUS – 17:58 -

Somewhere deep in the automated system, a bell chimed.

Once. Sharp. Unapologetic.

18:00 shift change.

Screens flickered. Security feeds rotated. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like insects. A voice spoke over the intercom, neutral and cold:

“Oscorp thanks you for your service. Integrity. Innovation. Legacy.”

In the east wing, guards swapped badges. Techs scanned out. A janitor muttered about the coffee. No one looked up.

That was the point.

Nothing was supposed to happen.

- OSCORP – VEHICLE BAY – LOADING ENTRANCE – SAME TIME

The black delivery van pulled into the lower garage like any other supply drop. It idled for a moment—just long enough for the guards to glance, scan the ID, and wave it through.

Yelena was driving.

Melina sat beside her, clipboard in hand, hair tied back into no-nonsense efficiency.

In the back, Peter 2 and Peter 3 were crouched low, hidden behind two crates labeled “Bio-interface Components – Handle With Care.”

“Guards bought it,” Melina muttered.

Yelena gave the faintest smirk. “They always do.”

The gate opened fully. The van rolled forward into Oscorp’s spine.

No alarms.

No attention.

Just quiet.

Somewhere down the block, out of sight, another engine idled in the dark. Alexei leaned back in the driver’s seat of the Getaway Sled, fingers drumming the wheel. He hadn’t been called yet.

But he would be.

Soon.
——-

- OSCORP – FRONT PLAZA – EARLIER THAT EVENING -

The cab rolled to a slow stop at the curb.

Norman stepped out first—coat over one arm, movements unhurried. Like he had all the time in the world. Like the building didn’t tower over them with glass teeth.

Otto circled to the other side, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve as he retrieved a black briefcase from the back seat.

They stood there for a moment.

Two men in suits. Two ghosts in daylight.

Then they moved.

⸻

- OSCORP – SECURITY CHECKPOINT – MOMENTS LATER -

The scanners buzzed faintly, sweeping green light over Norman’s eyes.

The guard didn’t make eye contact.

“Name and department?”

“Norman Osborn,” he replied, with a tone that dared the man not to know it. “Executive operations.”

The biometric pad blinked.

Then turned green.

Otto’s forged clearance pinged a second later.

The guard hesitated only a moment. “You weren’t on the schedule, sir.”

Norman smiled with perfect disdain. “That’s why I’m still alive.”

A pause.

Then the guard waved them through.

Otto followed, jaw tight, every step rehearsed.

As they passed the last checkpoint, he murmured, “That was almost too smooth.”

Norman’s smile sharpened. “Then we’re just in time to make it worse.”

- OSCORP – SUBSTRUCTURE ACCESS TUNNEL – EVENING -

Water dripped from somewhere overhead. It echoed in rhythm—steady, like breath. The kind of breath taken before a kill. Or before a rescue.

Peter crouched low, gloved fingers bracing against the damp wall. The light from his lenses cast thin beams ahead, catching rust, wire, steel. Everything felt like it had been abandoned and yet… used.

Sam walked just behind, shield slung across his back. His steps were quiet. Balanced. He didn’t ask if Peter was okay. He already knew the answer.

Bucky brought up the rear.

He moved like he’d been here before—even if the names were different.

No one spoke.
Not yet.

The trio moved deeper into the infrastructure. Pipes loomed above, crisscrossing like the bones of some great machine. On the far wall, a half-rotted Oscorp sign pointed “AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.”

Peter paused beneath it.

He reached into his belt, pulled out a web-node, and slung it toward the next door. It landed silently and blinked green.

“Clear,” he said, voice low.

They stepped through.

⸻

This part of Oscorp wasn’t on the blueprint.
It should’ve been storage.

Instead, it was wired. Monitored. Reinforced.

Peter’s eyes flicked to the embedded sensors in the ceiling.

“They’re watching,” he muttered.

“Good,” Bucky said. “Let them.”

Sam pulled up the portable feed Melina had patched into their wrist units. Most cameras were looped. But one—fuzzy, black-and-white—showed something moving.

A gurney.
Two figures.
Guards.

Being pushed down a hallway… sublevel west.

Peter’s chest went tight.

“MJ and Gwen?”

Sam nodded once. “They’re being moved.”

Peter took one step forward—too fast.

Bucky caught his shoulder.

“Not yet.”

Peter looked up. “They’re leaving.”

“And we stop them,” Bucky said. “But we don’t charge in alone.”

Peter closed his eyes. Breathed. Webbed the next door open.

They moved deeper.

——
- OSCORP – MANHATTAN EXECUTIVE LOBBY – EARLIER THAT EVENING -

The lobby was gleaming.

Flawless marble. Gold trim. Screens broadcasting Oscorp’s stock ticker in muted blue light. The hum of wealth disguised as progress.

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime.

Norman stepped out first.

His posture was immaculate. Shoulders squared. Chin lifted half an inch higher than necessary. The suit he wore cut through the light like it had been stitched from power itself.

Otto followed, black case in hand. Unbothered. Familiar.

“Mr. Osborn.”

A junior assistant—no older than twenty-two, eyes too bright—stepped up immediately, tablet clutched like a shield.

“You weren’t scheduled today.”

Norman didn’t look at him. Just kept walking.

“Did you just interrupt me to confirm your incompetence?”

The assistant blinked. “I—I just meant—”

Otto smiled tightly. “He’s joking.”

Norman turned slightly, just enough to flash a cool, empty smile.

“Of course I’m joking.”

The assistant wilted. “Yes, sir.”

They moved on.

Past the security desk.
Past the guards who didn’t breathe too loudly when he passed.
Past the places where Norman 1 had left ghosts in every hallway.

Otto leaned in, voice low. “You’re enjoying this.”

“No,” Norman replied. “I’m just good at it.”

⸻

- OSCORP – EXECUTIVE HALLWAY – MOMENTS LATER -

The walls here were mirrored. Disorienting. Designed to make everyone feel watched.

Norman didn’t blink.

His reflection stared back—perfectly poised. Slight tilt of the head. Faint smirk. All of it learned.

A security officer stopped them halfway down the hall. Older. More familiar.

“Mr. Osborn,” he said. “I thought you were at the Jersey site today.”

The jersey site? That isn’t a coincidence, Otto thought.

Norman turned slowly, smiling without warmth.

“You thought wrong.”

The officer nodded stiffly. “Shall I notify your son you’ve arrived?”

Norman’s face didn’t move. Not even a twitch.

“Why spoil the surprise?”

He walked past.

Otto met the officer’s eyes. Didn’t speak.
Then followed.

—-

- OSCORP – EASTERN LOWER CORRIDOR -

The halls echoed with nothing.

Harry walked alone—flanked by silence, dressed like a weapon. The suit Norman had chosen for him fit too well. Too tight across the shoulders. Too familiar in its restraint.

He kept moving.

Three guards rounded the corner up ahead. One nodded to him—impersonal, mechanical.

“Evening, Miss Osborn.”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.
Didn’t breathe until they were gone.

His footsteps slowed near the eastern sublevel.

That’s when he saw it.

A red light above the nearest camera.

Blinking.

Then—dead.

Just for a second.
Then back on.
But it flickered.

Harry stopped walking.
He stared up at it.
His jaw tightened.

The air shifted as soon as Harry saw the camera flicker. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but his instincts were sharp, honed by years of being the shadow in someone else’s game.

The red light above the camera blinked out for a brief second—then, as if nothing had happened, it returned.

Harry stopped.

His eyes lingered on the fading light. It was a security system built to be perfect, and now it had faltered.

His fingers hovered over his comm.

For a brief moment, the temptation to break protocol was there. To find the team. To find the others.

But instead, his comm buzzed to life. His superior’s voice cutting through the silence, crisp and cold.

SECURITY COMMS:
“Miss Osborn. Your presence is required in Isolation. The girls are being relocated. You’re needed to oversee their transport.”

The pull of duty—a rope wrapped around his chest—tugged him toward the path he knew too well. The one that had been carved for him by others.

Harry’s hand fell from his comm.

The sound of footsteps, far off, caught his attention.

They were already moving.

And so was he.

- OSCORP – ISOLATION WING – TRANSPORT HOLD – MINUTES EARLIER -

The walls were a different shade of white.

That was the first thing MJ noticed.

Not the same corridor. Not the same lights.

The guards didn’t wear Oscorp patches. Their uniforms were blank. No names. Just black.

Gwen sat beside her, wrists loosely bound, expression calm in that terrifying way—like she’d decided already how far she’d go if they tried something.

MJ leaned in slightly. Whispered.

“Where are we?”

Gwen didn’t answer.

One of the guards tapped the glass. “No talking.”

MJ stared at him.

Then looked back at Gwen.

“They’re moving us. Now it’s us.”

“I know.”

Gwen’s voice was low. Sharp. Not afraid.

But the grip she had on MJ’s hand—that betrayed it.

And her eyes must be as well.

Chapter 40: No one’s Home

- OSCORP – SUBSTRUCTURE CONTROL NODE – HACKING TEAM -

The room was colder than the tunnels.

Tucked beneath Sector B, it was buried behind a locked hatch and three layers of forgotten clearance codes. Sam had cut through two. Peter took care of the third with a quick web-loop over the final relay.

They slipped inside. Bucky stayed by the door.

The room pulsed with light—screens flickering, data streaming from floor to ceiling. Surveillance feeds. Motion trackers. Sector overlays.

It was Oscorp’s eyes.

Peter slid into the main console, fingers already flying. “Okay. Disabling looped feeds first. Then internal sensors. Then blackout.”

“Quietly,” Bucky reminded him.

Peter glanced back. “Subtle as I can.”

Sam stood over a side monitor, watching the floor layouts scroll. “Melina gave us a fifteen-minute window. After that, people start noticing the cameras aren’t glitching—they’re gone.”

Peter cracked into the root node.

The feeds shifted—looped, scrambled, staggered. Corridors went black. Elevators froze in place. A loading hallway flickered with false silence.

Then—

One screen held.
Uncorrupted. Real-time.

Peter paused.

It showed Sublevel West.

A transport unit. Two guards. A gurney.

MJ.

And Gwen.

Peter leaned in, breath catching.

And just as the image began to distort, something moved past the far edge of the frame—just a blur of color.

But unmistakable.

Auburn hair.

Not MJ.
Not Gwen.

Gone in a blink.

Then—static.

Peter froze.

“Rewind that,” Bucky said, stepping in.

Peter tried—but the footage corrupted instantly, eaten by the blackout sweep.

Sam frowned. “That door behind them…”

He pointed to the half-seen panel in the frame. Heavy. Curved. Faded yellow paint around the rim.

“That’s not part of this facility.”

Peter stared at it. “It looks like—”

“Transit access,” Bucky said quietly. “Old line. Pre-war maybe. Probably sealed off.”

“Or not,” Sam said.

Peter’s voice was tight. “If they’re moving them… they’re taking them somewhere no one’s supposed to know exists.”

A beat.

Then Peter grabbed his gear.

“Then we follow.”

——

- OSCORP – EXECUTIVE SERVER CORRIDOR – SAME TIME -

The hallway hummed like a heartbeat.

Rows of reinforced doors stretched into the distance, each one coded, numbered, and unnervingly silent. The lights above them buzzed faintly, always two seconds too slow to respond.

Norman walked with his hands behind his back, surveying the world he once ruled like a man revisiting a painting he no longer recognized.

Otto tapped at a wall-mounted tablet, his fingers moving fast, eyes narrowed.

“Your surveillance matrix isn’t just corrupted,” he muttered. “It’s been rerouted.”

“Rerouted where?”

“That’s the thing,” Otto said, flicking between data streams. “Nowhere on file.”

He handed the screen to Norman.

One sector was missing. Not offline—gone. Like it had never been there.

Norman stared at it. “That shouldn’t be possible.”

“Which means someone built it to be impossible.”

He turned back toward the corridor.

That’s when he noticed the walls—they didn’t follow the architectural pattern. The spacing was off. There was too much blank space between panels, too many power lines vanishing into the floor where nothing should need them.

Otto stepped closer to a sealed bulkhead.

“No access pad. No signage. And this?” He rapped the metal with his knuckle. “Reinforced. Not decorative.”

Norman tilted his head.

There was a sound behind it.

A faint clang. Like metal shifting on metal. Then silence.

His voice dropped.

“How deep does this building go?”

Otto looked at him.

“I think we’re standing above the part of Oscorp no one was meant to see.”

—-

- OSCORP – CELLBLOCK SUBLEVEL – MOMENTS LATER -

The door hissed open.

Peter 3 stepped in first, shoulders tense. He scanned the room—eyes darting from corner to corner, mask pulled back just enough to see the pain in his face.

Peter 2 followed, holding a device Melina had handed him—Oscorp’s old access scanner, rigged to track biometric residue.

The hall was long. Empty.

Six cells. Steel doors.

Silence.

Peter 3 moved to the first door and peered inside.

Nothing.

The second—nothing again.

Peter 2 checked the scanner. “There was movement here. Recent. Two people.”

Peter 3 opened the third cell.

Gwens sweater was still on the cot. Folded. Too neat.
Like someone had been forced to leave it behind.

He picked it up slowly.

Then clenched it in his fist.

“She was here,” he said.

Peter 2 opened the fourth cell. MJ name was scratched faintly into the corner of the wall.

“She was too.”

They looked at each other.

Too late.

Peter 2 stepped into the hallway. “If they’re not here, they’re being moved. We need to find the access logs.”

Peter 3 didn’t move.

He looked at the empty bed again. Sweater in hand.

Then whispered, “I was supposed to be faster this time.”

Peter 2 paused. Then turned back, walking towards him, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder, saying softly

“We still can be.”

- OSCORP – MAINTENANCE NODE – SECURE COMMS – MOMENTS LATER -

The secure channel crackled to life.

Peter 2’s voice cut through first—clipped, breathless.

PETER 2 (COMMS):
“We’ve made it to the cells. But the girls are gone.”

A beat.

Then Sam’s voice came in, sharper.

SAM (COMMS):
“We know. We saw footage. One hallway cam got corrupted during the blackout. But just before… we saw them. They’re being moved.”

Bucky leaned in toward the comm unit in the control node.

BUCKY (COMMS):
“And our snow leopard is with them. Moving past a sealed door. Looked like an old transit access.”

Static. Then Otto’s voice joined—cool, observant.

OTTO (COMMS):
“That door doesn’t belong to Oscorp’s original plans.”

NORMAN 2 (COMMS):
“It’s the line. The one they buried decades ago. Private transport—untraceable. It may connect to the Jersey facility I’m supposed to be at today.”

Everyone froze.

PETER 1 (COMMS):
“We have to follow them. If not…”

MELINA (COMMS):
“They’re trying to vanish them.”

Yelena’s voice cut in, sharp.

BUCKY (COMMS):
“Exactly. We follow.”

YELENA (COMMS):
“I’ll send the signal.”

⸻

- NEW YORK STREET – PARKED AROUND THE BLOCK – NIGHT -

Inside the getaway sled, Alexei’s comm unit lit up.

He glanced down. A coded light pulsed red-blue-red.

He cracked his knuckles.

ALEXEI (COMMS):
“Going to Jersey.”

He started the engine

——

- OSCORP – CELLBLOCK SUBLEVEL – MOMENTS LATER -

The door hissed open, and the cold, sterile air of the sublevel swept in.

Harry stepped in quietly, his footsteps deliberate, but slow. He kept his distance from the girls, trailing behind them like a shadow. The guards didn’t notice; they didn’t need to.

His suit clung too tightly to him, but he didn’t adjust it. Didn’t feel the need to. There was a weight to it that had nothing to do with the fabric—nothing to do with the role it forced him into.

Gwen felt his presence before she saw him. His absence from their side, the coldness that had replaced whatever warmth had once been there. He moved silently behind them, a reflection of what they used to know, but… somehow lost.

“How nice of you to join us, Miss Osborn,” a Hydra agent sneered.

Harry didn’t flinch. Didn’t react.

“I was called to help with this,” he replied flatly, his voice cold and empty, but with an edge of frustration buried deep. “Not to be mocked.”

The agent sneered again but said nothing. He gestured to the door, signaling the move forward.

“Move it, girls.”

The shackles around Gwen’s and MJ’s wrists didn’t offer them much comfort. They walked ahead, but Gwen’s eyes flicked back, catching the faintest glimpse of Harry behind them, silent, following with an eerie precision. She couldn’t decide whether it made her feel safer or more unnerved.

Harry kept his gaze ahead, footsteps never faltering. He didn’t look at them. Not once. Not even when Gwen’s eyes burned with something far too familiar.

She wanted to call out to him, scream, ask him what the hell was happening to him. But there was no point. The cold distance between them stretched further with every step he took.

Gwen’s grip on MJ tightened, her fingers aching with the need to say something, anything. But she stayed quiet. She had no words left for Harry, not if he wouldn’t hear them.

They reached the heavy door, the old metal creaking as it swung open.

Gwen and MJ passed through without a word.

And then, Harry.

He was the last one to slip through the doorway, his form momentarily lit by the flickering light. His auburn hair caught the dim glow, but his face remained unreadable as he stepped through the door into the unknown.

In that moment, the flicker of his hair—barely visible on the security feed—was the last thing Peter 1 and Sam saw.

The door closed behind him with a hiss.

And for a moment, there was only silence.

—-

- OSCORP – SUBTERRANEAN TRANSIT TUNNEL – NIGHT -

The air shifted as they stepped through the threshold.

It was colder down here. Older. The sterile hum of Oscorp’s polished upper corridors was gone, replaced by the low, mechanical exhale of ventilation units that hadn’t been updated in decades. The concrete beneath their feet was damp, and the rails along the center of the tunnel were lined with rust and shadows.

Gwen and MJ were at the front of the group, wrists unbound now but no freer than before. Two Hydra agents followed closely behind, another just ahead of them, silent but watchful. No words. No explanations.

Just motion.

Behind them, several paces back, Harry walked alone.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t look at them. His footsteps echoed with precision—unbroken rhythm, like a metronome set by someone else’s hand.

MJ glanced at Gwen, her shoulder brushing hers as they walked side by side. Gwen’s grip had gone rigid again. Tense. Every line of her posture wound tight as piano wire.

She didn’t look at MJ. Her eyes were fixed on Harry.

Watching him.

Waiting.

He never turned his head.

Not once.

“He’s not even pretending anymore,” Gwen said, her voice low, sharp like a whispered blade.

MJ blinked, followed her gaze.

Harry’s face was unreadable—eyes locked forward, jaw set, suit pristine. There was no trace of the boy they’d known. Not even a flicker.

“We don’t know the whole picture,” MJ said softly, hesitant.

“Don’t we?” Gwen snapped, not looking at her. “Because that looks like someone who’s made peace with it.”

She turned away before her voice could crack.

Ahead, the tunnel curved downward, disappearing into shadow. The lights grew dimmer the further they walked, until it felt like the air itself was pressing in, heavy and unsympathetic.

Harry didn’t change pace.

He hadn’t looked at them.

Not once.

Gwen bit down on whatever she wanted to say. Because if she said it, and he still didn’t look at her—if he heard her voice and did nothing—then that would break something inside her she wasn’t ready to name.

So she stayed quiet.

So did he.

The group disappeared into the dark.

And whatever was waiting below… was closer now.

Chapter 41: Tunnel Vision

- OSCORP – SUBTERRANEAN TRANSIT TUNNEL – SAME TIME -

The air was thick with the weight of secrecy. Peter 1, Sam, and Bucky waited by the sealed door, the tension in the air palpable. The team was ready, the moment almost here.

Peter 1 glanced at Bucky, then turned to Sam, his expression unreadable but focused.

SAM( COMMS):

“Melina, Yelena and the Peters, I’ll send you a location get there, fast. And Norman, Otto you will need to drive to the jersey facility. Get in there, and try to keep your cover intact”

PETER 1 (COMMS):
“We’re at the door. Meet us here. Fast.”

The reply came almost immediately.

PETER 2 (COMMS):
“We’re moving. Be there in a minute.”

YELENA (COMMS):
“Already out my way.”

NORMAN ( COMMS):
“We’ll be there. As for the cover - no guarantees, especially if Norman is still there.”

PETER 1 ( COMMS):
“Good. We’ll cover the entrance.”

They waited. The air felt even heavier now, the silence ringing between them. Bucky stood by the door, his posture casual but his eyes sharp. Sam kept his gaze trained on the hallway ahead, shield poised and ready. They knew what was coming, but that didn’t make it any less dangerous.

Moments later, the sound of footsteps echoed from the shadows. Peter 2 and Peter 3 emerged first, followed by Yelena and Melina, their faces set, the same fire in their eyes.

Peter 1 nodded briefly as they closed the gap, then turned back toward the sealed door.

“Let’s move.”

The team moved forward, quick but cautious. The tunnel was narrow, the concrete walls pressing in. The damp, musty smell of rust filled the air, but they couldn’t afford to care about that now. Every step seemed to echo louder than the last, and the flickering lights above cast shadows that danced on the walls, twisting the tunnel into something unfamiliar.

Peter kept his focus ahead, his mind lingering on the flicker of auburn hair he had seen earlier—Harry, slipping into the shadows without a second glance. How had it come to this? Peter’s thoughts churned, but he quickly pushed them aside. Now wasn’t the time to think about that. Now wasn’t the time to wonder if Harry could still be saved. They had to finish this.

“Stay sharp,” Sam’s voice cut through the silence, a quiet reminder that they couldn’t afford to be distracted. “They’ve got the advantage for now, but that won’t last long.”

Peter nodded, pushing forward, the team falling into step behind him. The flickering lights seemed to grow dimmer the farther they went, and the oppressive weight of the tunnel closed in. They could hear the low hum of activity up ahead. They were close.

⸻

- JERSEY FACILITY – MAIN ENTRANCE – NIGHT-

The automatic doors slid open smoothly, their soft hum cutting through the tension. Norman Osborn stepped forward first, his presence commanding the space around him. Behind him, Otto followed, adjusting his black briefcase, his face as calm as ever.

They approached the security checkpoint, where the young guard looked up from his tablet. His eyes narrowed as they settled on Norman, a hint of confusion flashing across his features.

“Mr. Osborn?” the guard said, squinting at his tablet. “You were here earlier today… Why do you need clearance again?”

Norman froze for a moment, just enough for the briefest flicker of irritation to cross his face. Then he smiled—a smile that could freeze ice.

“There was an urgent matter that requires my attention. Haven’t you been informed?” Norman’s voice was low, controlled.

The guard hesitated, his fingers tapping quickly over the tablet as he pulled up the schedule. His eyes flicked between the screen and Norman. The unease in his gaze deepened as he checked the entry logs.

“No, that wasn’t on the schedule. According to this, you’re still in here and never left,” the guard said, pointing to the tablet. “You’ve already been through.”

Norman’s smile tightened, his patience thinning. He glanced at Otto for just a second, his eyes narrowing as he weighed his options.

Behind the guard, Otto’s eyes narrowed too, his hand subtly shifting to the hilt of his weapon. He noticed two Hydra agents watching them, their fingers twitching near their guns.

“I think our cover’s blown,” Otto murmured quietly, barely audible.

Norman didn’t acknowledge Otto’s words immediately. Instead, he turned his attention back to the guard, his smile returning—though now it felt like a blade.

“Well then that must be a mistake, since I am here now, mustn’t it?” Norman’s voice was laced with barely concealed menace.

The guard fumbled, not sure what to make of Norman’s tone. Otto, ever the observer, shifted his stance. His eyes scanned the room for any more threats, and that’s when he saw it—a slight shift in the guard’s posture, the way his fingers twitched as if he was about to signal the others. The tension was palpable.

“Isn’t that right?” Norman pressed, his voice lowering dangerously.

Just as the guard hesitated, an alarm blared, cutting through the air like a siren. The shrill sound rang out across the facility.

ALARM (OVER INTERCOM):
“FACILITY COMPROMISED. INITIATE LOCKDOWN.”

Norman’s smirk grew darker as he turned his back to the guard, already knowing this was the distraction they needed. Otto followed, but not before the guard’s confusion turned to realization.

In the midst of the confusion, gunshots rang out, and Hydra agents scrambled into position. The doors slid shut with a loud metallic clang, sealing the team inside.

⸻

- OSCORP – SUBTERRANEAN TRANSIT TUNNEL – SAME TIME -

Back in the tunnel, the team heard the sound of the lockdown alarms blaring in the distance, the echo of metal doors slamming into place throughout the facility.

“LOCKDOWN INITIATED. ALL ENTRANCES SECURED.”

Peter 1’s eyes widened as he heard the announcement, his voice tight with urgency.

“We need to move faster. Those doors are gonna close.”

Bucky’s gaze flicked down the tunnel, his expression focused and grim. They had no time to lose.

Peter 1 shot a glance toward Sam and Bucky. “Let’s move! The doors won’t stay open for long.”

With a burst of speed, they sprinted toward the next set of doors, knowing the facility was closing in on them. Their footsteps echoed in the growing chaos as the facility’s lockdown was now in full effect.

Every second counted.

Chapter 42: No Way Back

The capsule moved too fast and not fast enough. Gwen couldn’t tell if the hum beneath them was mechanical or if it was her pulse, vibrating in her ears like a warning. The walls of the tunnel flashed by in faint pulses of green, like they were inside some great machine pretending to be alive.

She sat across from him.

Harry.

But not really.

Not the boy who made quiet jokes with Yelena. Not the one who stood just a little too close to Peter when he thought no one was watching. This version of him had gone still. Too still. His back didn’t touch the seat. His knees were locked. His eyes fixed on a point just above her head—deliberately anywhere else.

MJ sat beside her, rigid as stone. She hadn’t looked at him once since they were loaded in. Gwen understood why. Sometimes, when the person you care about becomes a stranger, looking hurts more than fear.

But Gwen… she couldn’t stop looking.

It wasn’t recognition she searched for. She barely knew him. But she knew people. She’d grown up with masks. Worn them. Torn them off. Watched them rot. And this mask—this calm, calculated silence—didn’t fit him right.

The gloves were new. Or maybe they weren’t. Maybe she just hadn’t noticed before. But now, the way his fingers rested, just barely curled—like if he moved them wrong, he might break something—it caught her attention.

She spoke before she fully meant to.

“…You blinked when they said MJ’s name.”

Her voice was even, clinical, like a scientist testing a theory she already knew the answer to.

Harry didn’t move. Not at first. But Gwen caught it—the tiniest twitch of his jaw. A shift in the muscle beneath his eye.

She tilted her head slightly. “Whatever game you’re playing, you’re losing it.”

This time, he looked at her. Only for a moment. A glance sharp enough to cut. Cold enough to freeze her lungs. But it wasn’t emptiness she saw there. It wasn’t apathy.

It was restraint.

He was still in there. Somewhere. Behind the silence, the mask, the weight of whatever Norman had wired into his spine. Gwen saw the crack. Just for a second.

She didn’t smile. Didn’t gloat. Just leaned back, letting the moment settle between them like dust.

The capsule slowed.

A soft chime sounded—elegant, out of place—and the mechanical hiss of pressure release filled the space. The door slid open, revealing a corridor bathed in sterile white light.

Harry stood without being told.

He didn’t look at either of them. Didn’t speak. Just waited for the guards to gesture.

Gwen stood slowly, helping MJ up beside her. She didn’t touch her—MJ didn’t like that when she was bracing—but she moved with her, shoulder to shoulder.

As they stepped into the corridor, Gwen glanced back—just once.

Harry was still watching the far wall. Still composed. Still perfectly unreadable.

But one of his fingers twitched, like it wanted to reach for something he couldn’t name.

The corridor outside was colder than the capsule. Not in temperature—though it carried the chill of metal and concrete—but in atmosphere. No warmth lived in these walls. Just control. Cameras in every corner. Lights too bright. The kind of place where silence wasn’t quiet—it was surveillance.

Harry moved first, as if he’d memorized the path. Gwen could tell it wasn’t his first time walking it. There was no hesitation in the way he led them. But there was no ownership either. He was the shadow of someone trained, not the source.

Two Hydra agents followed. One flanked MJ, another Gwen. Their weapons weren’t raised, but their eyes were alert—watching, waiting for any excuse.

They reached a reinforced door at the end of the corridor. A black panel blinked red. Harry paused, pulled out an Oscorp-branded ID card from his jacket, and slid it through the reader.

A beat.
Then: access granted.

The door clicked open with a hydraulic sigh.

MJ didn’t look at him. But Gwen did.
She watched the way his hand hovered just a second too long over the reader before withdrawing.
Not uncertainty.
Not fear.
Grief, maybe.

They passed through another checkpoint, deeper into the belly of the beast. And when Gwen looked back, the door sealed itself shut—separating them from the outside world completely.

It’s when she heard the sound of a comm buzz, she looked at Harry who had an unreadable expression on his face, his fist curling around the comm. And suddenly -

ALARM (OVER INTERCOM):
“FACILITY COMPROMISED. INITIATE LOCKDOWN.”

It was only when the silence returned that she realized her heart was pounding.

——

- SUBTERRANEAN TUNNEL – JERSEY FACILITY – SAME MOMENT -

“Move!”

Peter’s voice cracked like a whip down the narrow corridor. The alarm was already screeching in his ears, ricocheting off the steel walls and rattling his ribs. The words facility compromised still rang in the air, echoed by the pounding of boots and breath.

Bucky was in front now, slicing through the tunnel with precision. Sam followed just behind him, and Peter was last, pushing himself harder than he should’ve been. His lungs burned. His legs screamed. But he didn’t stop. Melina and Yelena directly behind them. The other Peters building the back.

They couldn’t stop. Not now. Not ever. There was no way back.

The sealed entry to the Jersey facility loomed ahead—gray and massive, with red emergency lights already flickering along its frame.

Peter hit his comm as he ran. Hopefully the two could fight their way to the control room, if not, the mission would end here and they’d suffocate in the tunnel.

PETER (COMMS):
“We’re at the access point! Open it!”

Static. Then a flicker of Otto’s voice, tense and crackling.

OTTO (COMMS):
“Now or never. We’ve bought you maybe twenty seconds.”

Peter’s heart jackknifed. His brain calculated in milliseconds.

They weren’t going to make it.

And then—just ahead—Bucky threw himself at the panel. His vibranium arm slammed into the override casing, cracking metal and sparks.

The panel blinked once. Then twice.
Access granted.

The door groaned.

Sam barreled through first. Then Bucky. Peter barely squeezed in behind them before the door slammed shut with a violent hiss.

The tunnel was behind them now.

They were inside.

Peter leaned against the wall, panting hard, his hand still on the comm.

PETER (COMMS):
“We’re in”

NORMAN ( COMMS):
“Good. We’re in Block C surveillance.”

Bucky saw a panel that had one recent log. Theirs as a breach and one right before the alarm rang. “This must be them. H. Osborn — ID: Level 5 Clearance — Accessed: 22:04 – Sector A-17”
It was him - Harry, they’re with Harry.”, Peter said quietly.

Sam looked over at him, sweat beading on his brow. “Then we follow the trail.”

SAM(COMMS):
“Norman, Otto the girls are with the leopard.”

OTTO (COMMS):
“We’ll check the cameras.”

“Let’s go”, Bucky said.

Peter nodded, head low.

No way back. Only forward now.

——

-JERSEY FACILITY – BLOCK C SURVEILLANCE – MOMENTS LATER -

The feed was fractured—dozens of square boxes flickering with static, timestamps blurred by the alarm overlay. Otto moved like a surgeon, flicking through angles with rapid keystrokes. Sweat gathered at Norman’s brow, but his expression remained carved in stone.

“Here,” Otto muttered.

Sector A-17 lit up in the lower corner of the wall screen. A security camera positioned above the east hallway clicked into focus.

And there he was.

Harry.

Dressed in Oscorp black. Hair slicked, posture tense. Walking several steps behind Gwen Stacy and MJ Watson, who were flanked by two armed guards.

Gwen’s chin was up. MJ’s fists were clenched. But it was Harry that held the frame.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t look at either of them. His gaze was fixed forward—unreadable.

Otto leaned in slightly, his voice lower now.

“He’s guiding them. Not restraining. Not leading.”

Norman’s jaw ticked.

“No… He’s performing.”

Otto looked over. “You think he’s still with us?”

Norman didn’t answer. His eyes stayed on the screen, fixed on Harry’s silhouette as it vanished into the next corridor. The footage jumped, followed by a secondary camera angle—this one more distant, more grainy.

But it was enough.

He saw it.

MJ’s shoulder brushed Harry’s arm by accident. For just a second, his hand twitched. The motion was slight—almost imperceptible—but Norman saw the hesitation.

A breath too long.

A ghost of restraint.

His hand curled around the back of the chair in front of him. Slowly. Purposefully.

Then, he clicked the comm in his ear.

NORMAN (COMMS):
“Visual confirms. The leopard is with them. Sector A-17. Likely headed toward containment.”

A pause.

Then his voice dropped, darker.

“I’ll intercept.”

Otto’s head turned sharply. “Alone?”

Norman’s gaze was like glass—sharp enough to cut.

“He’s my son.”

Otto studied him, then nodded once.

“I’ll reroute the eastern doors. Give you a clean path. But Norman—”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

He didn’t need to.

If Harry was already too far gone, Norman would know. And if he wasn’t…

Well. That might be worse.

Norman turned from the screen and walked toward the emergency exit hatch at the side of the room. One of Otto’s arms reached over to override the lock.

“Good hunting, love.” Otto said.

Norman turned around, just for a second, but his gaze spoke a million words.

- JERSEY FACILITY – CONTAINMENT SECTOR – MOMENTS LATER -

The door hissed open with a sterile finality, and Gwen stepped into the room like she was entering a surgical theater. Bright overhead lights buzzed faintly, casting her shadow long across the polished floor. MJ walked just ahead of her, stiff, unyielding. The two guards flanked them until they stopped—dead center, under the eye of a surveillance dome.

Then she saw him.

Norman Osborn.

He stood at the far end of the chamber, flanked by a small terminal and something worse—something unseen but felt. His presence darkened the room like smoke. Immaculate suit. Hands folded. That unnerving calm that felt rehearsed. Practiced.

Gwen’s spine bristled.

Harry stepped forward last.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t look at them.

Norman’s gaze shifted past the girls, settling directly on him.

“My, my. Right on schedule,” he said smoothly. “Did they give you any trouble?”

Harry didn’t respond.

Norman’s eyes narrowed, just a touch. Then he smiled—too white, too perfect.

“No matter. You’ve done your part.” He turned toward the guards without breaking eye contact with his son. “Escort the girls to Processing. Tell Connors they’re ready.”

MJ twitched beside Gwen, her fists clenching. Gwen reached out, gently brushing her hand—MJ didn’t flinch, but her jaw locked.

The guards moved to take them.

Harry took a step forward—instinctively.

Norman didn’t miss it.

“Ah.” He lifted a hand. “You’re dismissed, Harriett.”

That name landed like a slap.

Harry didn’t react—not visibly. But Gwen saw it. The flicker behind his eyes. A breath caught between teeth. He looked at the girls—then away, as if it cost him something.

“Security breach is active in Corridor 5C,” Norman continued, turning to the screen behind him. “Go. Help clean up the mess.”

Harry hesitated.

Then—just as trained—he turned and walked out. Silent. Obedient.

But his fingers flexed once at his side, twitching like they remembered how to fight.

Chapter 43: Everyone’s Sin, no one’s Son

She didn’t sit. Wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

The room smelled like disinfectant and electricity. MJ stood across from her, back ramrod straight, lips thin with fury. Neither of them had spoken since being escorted in—just exchanged a glance that said stay alive, stay sharp, stay you.

Gwen’s wrists itched. Not from restraints—they hadn’t bothered—but from the sheer weight of silence.

Norman Osborn stood near the mirrored wall, speaking lowly into a comm she couldn’t hear. His smile was faint. Wrong.

And Harry… Harry was gone.

That was almost worse than him staying.

She paced once—just once—then stopped when she noticed it. A flicker. A twitch.

Norman’s smile faltered.

He turned to the mirror. Then, sharply, to the guard at the door.

“How many are inside?”

The guard blinked, confused. “Sir?”

Norman took a step forward, too calm. “How many intruders breached the lower level?”

“Three confirmed near Control—one enhanced, two unknowns. But the others—”

Norman cut him off. His eyes narrowed.

“Did you say others?”

The guard hesitated. “They breached from multiple angles. There were… two Spider-Men.”

Gwen felt her heart pause.

Norman turned slowly, like a man peeling back reality by hand.

“Two?”

MJ’s eyes darted toward Gwen. Gwen stared back, stunned.

Two Spider-Men?

Norman was already striding to the console, barking orders. “Pull security feeds for Sector A and D. All angles.”

Gwen’s pulse spiked. Something cracked wide open in her chest.

They weren’t alone.

– WESTERN CORRIDORS –

Gunfire cracked overhead. Not lethal—stun rounds, at least for now—but they hit hard enough to throw Sam against the wall, his shield ricocheting down the corridor with a hollow clang.

Peter ducked, flipped, caught it midair, and hurled it back toward the shooter. A Hydra agent dropped like a sack of bricks. Two more stepped up in his place.

“Where are they all coming from?” Peter shouted, barely dodging another round. His voice echoed against the concrete walls, laced with exhaustion and frustration.

“Welcome to Oscorp,” Bucky growled, slamming his metal fist into a guard’s ribcage with bone-cracking force.

The corridor pulsed red—emergency lights strobing down the length of the hallway like a warning. Doors auto-locked behind them. They were being funneled.

Sam caught up, grabbing his shield from Peter’s hand. “They’re herding us.”

Peter’s head snapped toward him. “Toward what?”

No one answered.

From a nearby junction, Yelena’s voice broke through the comms.

YELENA (COMMS):
“Melina found the override. We’re following a signal—it’s him. Osborn. The original one.”

MELINA (COMMS):
“And he has the girls. We’re close.”

PETER 2 (COMMS):
“We’ll handle it. You three keep pushing east. Harry’s somewhere near the auxiliary control wing.”

Peter’s stomach twisted at the name. Not because of fear.

Because of hope.

“Then let’s move,” he said, turning back toward the next corridor—and the wall of agents waiting for them.

Bucky stepped forward, blood on his knuckles. “I’ve got the left.”

Sam raised his shield. “Right.”

Peter cracked his neck and said nothing. He just ran.

——-

– LOWER CORRIDORS – SAME TIME -

The map was scrambled. Whatever clean-cut blueprint Oscorp once had, it had long since been overrun by backdoors, corrupted systems, and Hydra rewrites. But Melina knew how to read chaos.

“Here!” Yelena shouted, sliding to a halt at a four-way junction. Her fingers flew across the outdated terminal embedded in the wall. “They passed this point four minutes ago—Sector A-17.”

Yelena didn’t stop moving. She turned to Peter 2 and Peter 3, both winded but keeping up.

“Then we’re not fast enough.”

Her voice was sharp—too sharp—but the stakes were higher than the corridors could hold. Gwen was inside. MJ too. And Harry… Harry was somewhere between loyalty and ruin, and Yelena couldn’t stand the thought of him breaking alone.

Peter 2 reached her side, a nick on his cheek already bruising. “We need a way around the choke point.”

Peter 3 scanned the ceiling. “I think I see one.”

Without waiting, he webbed upward—disappearing into the ventilation hatch above like smoke. Seconds later, a panel blew out halfway down the corridor ahead.

Peter 3’s voice crackled through the comms.

PETER 3 (COMMS):
“Ventilation shaft bypassed the lock. You’ve got a straight shot to Sector A!”

Yelena didn’t hesitate. “Go!”

They charged forward, passing the threshold just as Hydra reinforcements emerged behind them—too late. A flash grenade rolled out of Melina’s sleeve, detonating behind them in a blaze of white.

The next corridor twisted downward. Lights buzzed. Cameras swiveled to track them.

Peter 2 webbed one to black static.

Ahead, the hallway opened into a wide containment annex—sterile, echoing, sealed. A single reinforced door blinked red.

Melina’s eyes narrowed. “That’s it. They’re in there.”

Yelena pulled her pistol.

Peter 2 stepped forward. “Let me try something.”

He reached out—calm, steady—and placed a hand on the scanner.

It blinked. Red. Red. Then—
GREEN.
Accepted.

Peter 2 looked over his shoulder. “Guess they still remember one of us.”

The door slid open with a hiss.

They stepped inside.

– CONTAINMENT SECTOR –

Everything happened at once.

The reinforced door at the far end screamed as it slid open—fast, unscheduled. Gwen’s head snapped toward it, MJ already bracing beside her. The guards reached for weapons, too late.

A woman with blonde hair moved first. A flash of motion, precise as a blade. Her baton cracked against the nearest agent’s arm, sending the gun skittering.

Another one, with dark hair swept in behind her, calm and merciless. Then …. Two Spider Man? The one in the retro looking suit somersaulted forward, launching a web across the room, yanking a control panel out of reach. The other one, he’s taller - moved like water—dodging, flipping, disabling with clean, practiced moves.

Gwen didn’t breathe.

She couldn’t.

For one heartbeat, it was chaos—limbs and weapons and the sudden snap of power against steel.

And then it settled.

Norman Osborn had not moved.

He stood perfectly still, gaze locked—not on MJ. Not on the intruders.

But on Peter 3.

A different kind of silence settled in the room.

The kind that followed a car crash.

Peter 3 froze mid-step, webline still drawn taut. His eyes, visible through the lenses, widened. There she stood. Gwen. Bruised. But eyes still sharp. Not defeated. Alive.

Gwen whispered, “That’s not… that’s not our Peter.”

MJ’s hand brushed hers, firm and grounded. “No. But they are here to help”

Norman took a step forward, a tremor beneath the motion. Not fear. Something colder. Something Stephen would describe as multiversional anger.

“What are you?” he said quietly. “Why is there two of you.”

Peter 2 lowered his web shooter, just slightly. “You’ll be surprised when you meet the third one. He’s a bit enraged, you know.”

The air shifted. MJ turned to Gwen, her mouth just parting—about to ask something—but Gwen was already watching Harry’s father like he was a ghost.

Because in a way, he was.

Peter 3 stepped in now, flanking Peter 2, his posture looser, younger—but no less focused. His eyes darted to the girls, the guards, the shadows.

Yelena barked, “Clear!” and Melina was already moving to Gwen’s side, checking for injuries.

But Gwen couldn’t stop watching Norman.

Two Spider-Men.

The world was tilting.

And somewhere, deeper in the facility, Gwen could feel it—something breaking. Not the walls. Not the system.

Someone.

Harry.

——

INT.Y – CORRIDOR 5C – MOMENTS LATER

The hallways were too clean.

Everything in this place reeked of precision—angles that never ended, corners without shadows. And yet Harry walked them like he was underwater. His boots echoed in time with the fading alarm, but the sound was hollow. Distant. Like someone else was wearing his skin.

He was supposed to be searching for the intruders.

He should’ve reported to the nearest Hydra unit. That’s what the voice in his earpiece told him—sharp, cold, fatherly.

But Harry didn’t move like a soldier.

He drifted.

Past closed doors. Past rooms with flickering lights and glass, where people were still working. He didn’t see them. Didn’t care. He was moving toward something else. Something he couldn’t name.

His comm buzzed again. He ignored it.

He kept walking.

Turned a corner, then another. His hand hovered near the ID card still tucked in his vest. A part of him itched to throw it away.

“Harold.”

He stopped.

That voice—so familiar.

Harry turned slowly. A man stood at the other end of the corridor. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Hair graying at the temples.

That couldn’t be… did he follow him?

But the way he stood—it wasn’t threatening. It wasn’t casual either. It was… open. Like he didn’t come to fight. Like he didn’t want to.

Harry’s throat tightened.

“What?” His voice was hoarse. “Who’s Harold? And who the hell are you?”

Norman stepped forward. Slowly. Carefully.

“You always hated the full name. You were just ‘Harry.’ Even before you said it out loud—I knew. But I didn’t say it back then. I was too troubled with myself to acknowledge your need.”

Harry’s jaw clenched. His fingers curled into fists. What is this, some sci-fi movie with parallel universes? he thought. But he rolled with it.

“Whatever guilt you’re trying to exorcise,” he bit out, “you’ve got the wrong version.”

Norman stopped a few paces away. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t raise his voice.

“No,” he said softly. “I think I have exactly the right one.”

Harry’s breath stilled in his chest.

And for a moment—just one quiet second—something fractured. His posture faltered. His shoulders dropped. His mask—

BZZZT.

The comm in his ear crackled. Norman’s voice.

The other Norman.

NORMAN 1 (COMMS):
“Harriett. Status?”

The question was clinical. Cold.

And Harry—

Harry snapped back into place.

“Sector 5C secure,” he said automatically. “No visual.”

He didn’t look at the man in front of him.

Didn’t dare.

His voice dropped. “You need to go.”

Norman 2 didn’t move. He stayed put.

“You’re not Harriett, son. Just because some tyrant of a man decides who you are doesn’t mean you have to be it. Trust me—I tried it with my Harry. He’s gone now.”

Something inside Harry snapped.

Completely lost in the fog, anger burst through his veins. Eyes wide. Pupils dilated. He lurched forward, slamming Norman into the wall, his hand at his throat, squeezing hard.

“Son, stop—this isn’t you,” Norman gasped, air leaving his lungs.

“You don’t know me. I’m not your son. I’m no one’s son.” His voice cracked like glass, full of fury and grief.

Norman’s vision blurred. Black dots danced across his sight.

Then—impact.

The grip on his throat vanished.

Chapter 44: The Name That Holds You

Peter didn’t think. He just moved.

His shoulder slammed into Harry’s side with the force of a breaking wave, sending both of them crashing against the corridor wall. Norman 2 slumped to the floor, gasping for breath, the bruises already blooming along his throat.

Harry hit the wall with a snarl.

He turned fast—too fast. Adrenaline made his movements jerky, dangerous. His breath came in sharp, ragged bursts. His eyes—one green, one blue—were wide, unseeing. Feral.

He launched at Peter.

Peter barely blocked the first blow. The second came harder. Faster. A punch to the ribs, a kick toward his knee. Peter took them, hands up, defensive. He didn’t swing back.

“Harry—” he started.

But Harry wasn’t listening. Not yet. He was past the edge, somewhere between rage and command, lost in the silence of orders that had carved themselves into his skin long before this mission.

Sam and Bucky appeared at the far end of the hall. They froze.

Bucky’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t move. “This is his fight,” he told Sam. “I prepared him for this.”

Sam didn’t argue.

Peter ducked another hit. His mind reeled, but not from the blows. From the letter. From the weight of what they’d promised each other.

You said you’d stay in touch.

You said you’d try.

And now you’re here. But not really.

Peter remembered what Bucky told him on the training mat, weeks before.

“Sometimes you don’t win by hitting harder. You win by being the thing they remember.”

Peter’s voice broke as he said it.

“Stop it,” he gasped, hands still raised. “Harry. Stop.”

A punch connected with his shoulder, jarring him.

Peter didn’t flinch.

“It’s me, Pete.”

Another hit.

“Har—” he said, softer. Pleading now. “It’s me.”

Harry hesitated. Just a flicker. A twitch behind his eyes, like something blinked awake. But the fog still sat thick in his chest.

Peter stepped forward.

“You don’t have to fight. Not us. Not me. Not anymore.”

Harry’s fist shook midair, frozen there.

“You’re safe. You’re not there anymore.”

Peter’s breath hitched, words catching on the edge of his throat.

“You don’t have to pretend anymore.”

Harry’s hand dropped an inch.

“Come back to us.”

Another inch.

Peter whispered, the last thread of hope in his voice:

“To me.”

“Come back Har, please come back.”

The silence rang louder than the alarms.

Harry’s hand fell.

His body trembled. One step back. Then another. His eyes—wild, shining—finally found Peter’s. And this time, they stayed.

He breathed in.

Then fell.

Not down. Not collapsed. But into Peter’s arms.

Peter caught him.

Harry’s chest hitched once—then again. His body convulsed with a sob, like it had been trapped behind armor for years. Peter held him, arms wrapped tight around him like a promise, like a tether pulling him back into his own skin.

Sam lowered his shield, exhaling.

Bucky watched, and something quiet cracked open in his chest. A mix of pride and grief and something gentler.

Harry didn’t look back.

He wept into Peter’s shoulder, his hands shaking.

And for the first time in years, he let someone hold him while he did.

——

– CONTAINMENT SECTOR (SIMULTANEOUSLY) -

“Back!” Peter 2 snapped, stepping between Norman and the girls, his voice edged with something tighter now—older, wearier.

Norman didn’t listen. His gaze slid back to Peter 3, analyzing, dissecting.

“You’re not him,” he muttered. “But you wear the same mask. So the multiverse is real. That’s good to know. If there are this many Peter Parkers hiding behind Spider-Man, there must be others as well. Maybe… maybe there’s a version of my child who became something. Anything.”

Silence stretched through the room. Of course Norman had figured it out. Who Spider-Man was. It wasn’t that subtle, not if you weren’t completely stupid.

Peter 3 held still. “As you’ve figured—we’re not your Peter,” he said, quiet but steady. “And you’re definitely not my Norman. You know why? Because he’s dead.”

Yelena raised her weapon again. “We need to move. Now.”

Too late.

The wall behind them groaned—a hidden panel retracting with a hydraulic hiss. Reinforcements. Five, maybe six Hydra agents, fully armed. Tactical gear. Expressionless.

Peter 2 barely had time to shout, “Down!” before the first pulse blast tore through the air.

The room exploded into motion.

Peter 3 launched left, webs snapping in fast arcs—disarming one, yanking another into a steel pillar with a thwack that echoed like thunder.

Yelena was already mid-air, her baton cracking hard against the helmet of one of the new guards, dropping him flat.

Melina grabbed MJ and Gwen, guiding them toward cover behind a medical console. “Stay low,” she ordered. “Move when I say.”

Norman hadn’t flinched.

He turned, slowly, eyes tracking Peter 2 as he squared his shoulders. Something in him tightened—like muscle memory, like ghosts.

“Still playing hero?” Norman said, voice slick with acid. “Every Peter Parker has that pathetic need to be adored.”

Peter 2’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t need to be adored. I just didn’t want to become someone like you.”

Norman lunged—fast. But Peter was faster.

They collided hard into the wall. Peter’s webbing snapped out, anchoring them just long enough to flip the Goblin back toward the guards.

“I buried Harry’s sperm donor once,” Peter 2 spat. “Want me to do it again?”

Norman’s grin twisted. “You most likely buried your own rage. I just helped you dig it up.”

A cry rang out—Gwen’s.

Peter 3 turned, heart lurching.

A guard had broken off from the rest, circling wide—gun raised and aimed at her.

Peter didn’t think. He moved.

A web shot out, catching the barrel and yanking it up just as he launched forward—landing between her and the threat, arms raised.

“Hey,” he said, breathless. “You okay?”

Gwen stared at him. “Why do I feel like I know you?”

Peter 3 blinked. Stomach turning. Words gone.

Because you were my Everything, he thought.

But before he could answer—the western wall exploded.

Concrete shattered. Smoke and light. Something massive groaned behind the breach—metal, hydraulic, hulking.

Peter 2 caught Norman by the collar and hurled him backward—toward the guards.

“Fall back!” Melina shouted. “Now!”

Yelena swept forward, covering the group’s retreat.

But even as they moved, Gwen’s hand brushed Peter 3’s—and didn’t let go.

Their eyes met. Just for a second. A flicker of something unspoken.

And miles below them—Harry gasped into Peter’s shoulder.
And the spell broke.

—— Corridor 5C —-

Peter barely noticed the sting in his knees from the concrete floor. All he felt was the weight in his arms—Harry, trembling, breath hitching like a wire fraying with every inhale. His fists had uncurled. His shoulders had slumped. He was here, not performing, not fighting. Just… breaking.

Peter cupped the back of his neck, fingers sliding into sweat-damp strands of auburn hair.

“It’s okay,” he whispered, over and over again, voice barely more than breath. “I’ve got you, Har. I’ve got you.”

Harry didn’t answer. He just pressed his face tighter into the crook of Peter’s neck, like the warmth there was the only thing keeping him from shattering completely. His body flinched with every breath. One arm clung loosely to Peter’s jacket; the other hung limp.

Across the room, Norman 2 had pulled himself upright. A bruise bloomed along his jaw. His breathing was unsteady. But his eyes—his eyes were clear. He watched them with something like reverence. Quiet. Still. And then, slowly, he stepped forward and lowered himself beside them.

His gloved hand settled gently on Harry’s shoulder—no command, no pressure. Just presence.

“I’m proud of you,” Norman said, voice raw. “You came back.”

Harry didn’t look up, but Peter felt his fingers curl tighter around the fabric of his jacket.

Footsteps echoed down the hall.

Bucky.

He crouched beside them, the faint whir of his metal arm filling the silence as he bent. His face was unreadable. But his eyes were glassy, wet. More emotion than Peter had ever seen in him. More than maybe anyone had.

He didn’t speak. Just extended a hand.

Peter nodded, whispering a quiet, “We’re okay,” like he wasn’t quite sure if it was true.

Bucky looked at Harry, then at Peter again. “Let’s get him up.”

Together, they lifted him—Peter steady under his arm, Bucky a silent anchor at his side. Harry moved, barely, as if some part of him still wanted to fold inward.

Ahead of them, Sam’s voice cut through the corridor. Firm, but not unkind.

“We need to move.”

They turned. Sam stood a few paces ahead, eyes tracking the shadows.

“Security’s rerouting. We’ve got a window. If we’re lucky, we can still sell the illusion—make Norman think Harry’s in control. Maybe even corner him.”

But Harry wasn’t walking. He was being walked. Head down. Shoulders drawn in. His legs dragged like they didn’t belong to him.

Norman 2 saw it—and something in him shifted.

His breath caught. Not from exhaustion, but from memory. From the weight of another boy, another lifetime, the pressure he had placed on a child who had only ever wanted to be enough. And now—this version of him stood broken in someone else’s arms.

Norman tugged off his gloves.

He walked forward—measured steps, not rushing. Not taking. Just… asking.

“May I?” he said, voice quiet, eyes flicking toward Peter.

Peter hesitated—then stepped back just enough to let him in.

Norman reached for Harry carefully, one bare hand rising to cup his jaw. Gentle. Anchoring. Not like the other Norman would’ve done. Not like he once had.

Harry flinched. But didn’t pull away.

Norman’s voice trembled. “I know I don’t have the right. But I know what it’s like to become what someone else made of you. And I know what it is to force that onto someone else.”

He swallowed.

“I spent too long expecting things of my son. Pressuring him to be who I needed instead of who he was. And I see now how delusional that was—how much I missed, right in front of me.”

Harry’s eyes lifted—just slightly.

“I don’t expect anything from you,” Norman said. “Not a performance. Not forgiveness. Nothing.”

He exhaled, thumb resting just beneath Harry’s cheekbone.

“You don’t have to come back whole. I’m not. None of us are. And that’s okay.”

Harry blinked. Slow. Hollowed out—but listening.

“You’re not him,” he whispered.

“No,” Norman answered softly. “But I know him. I know how he thinks. What he wants. What he’ll do to get it.”

His voice thickened.

“I know what he took. Who he took. And if you’ll let me… I’d like to help give a piece of it back.”

Silence pooled around them.

Then—Harry nodded. Just once.

Peter felt it. Like a pulse. A shift—not healed, not whole, but his. Harry’s own step.

Norman drew his hand away—slowly. Respectfully.

Sam approached again, voice quieter this time. “We’ll walk,” he said. “Keep Harry out front. Let the cameras think he’s still in charge. But we stay close. All of us. No one gets left behind.”

Chapter 45: The Room with No EXIT

Summary:

The showdown begins. Can they win?

 

The wall behind them erupted—not a clean blast, but a guttural, ripping tear, like the facility itself was screaming.

Concrete fractured outward. Smoke punched through the opening, thick with steel dust and the bite of ozone.

Everyone moved at once.

Peter 3 threw himself in front of Gwen and MJ, webs snapping out to yank a metal beam aside before it could fall. He didn’t look back—he just knew she was behind him. That she was watching. That her hand hadn’t let go.

Yelena’s gun was up before the dust even cleared. “Eyes open. That wasn’t demolition—that was forced access.”

Melina pressed her back to a sparking console, her eyes narrowed, scanning the breach.

Peter 2 didn’t move. He stood at the center of it all like someone who’d lived this moment before. His knees bent. Shoulders tense. Tired eyes locked forward.

From the ruin emerged two Hydra agents—staggered, coughing, aiming blindly. Then came a third figure, upright and composed.

He wore a lab coat, burned at the edges. Scorched and stained with something greenish-black.

Dr. Curt Connors.

Gwen flinched. “No.”

MJ grabbed her arm, pulling her subtly behind. “That’s—he was one of them. He tried to—”

Connors raised his hands, palms out. “I know what I did. I remember everything. I didn’t have a choice.”

Yelena didn’t lower her weapon. Her aim sharpened.

Peter 3 stepped forward, arms slightly raised, protective. “Explain. Fast.”

Another silhouette followed through the smoke, taller and steadier.

Otto. His coat fluttered in the breeze of the breach. His mechanical arms retracted behind him with the precision of breath.

“Put the knives down,” he said gently. “He’s with me.”

Gwen’s stare sharpened. “He attacked us. He was under the serum.”

“And I brought him back,” Otto said, voice low. “Barely.”

Connors looked up, ashamed. “The aerosols were in my bloodstream. Neural binding. But I knew… I knew something was wrong. I kept fighting it. Otto—he found me before it stuck.”

“He stabilized him,” Otto confirmed, one metal arm clicking open to reveal a cracked Stark chip. “Adapted from a Red Room inhibitor. Not elegant. But it worked. He’s lucid now.”

Peter 2 narrowed his eyes. “Why now? Why here?”

Otto’s expression darkened. “Because Norman 1 is losing control. And while my Norman went off to find Harry, I posed as bait—misled the Hydra patrol that chased us. That’s when I found Connors. He was too exhausted to fight. I took him and went looking for a lead.”

Yelena’s jaw tightened. “Convenient.”

“Calculated,” Otto corrected. “We’re out of time.”

Connors stepped forward slowly, holding out a small vial. “I synthesized something. A reversal agent. Temporary, but enough to neutralize the serum. Shut Norman down before he deploys the final strain.”

“Which he will,” Otto added grimly. “He’s ready to end this. On his terms.”

Peter 3 looked between them, face drawn, still unsure.

Then Gwen’s voice cut through the silence—quiet, but unwavering.

“If this is real,” she said, “then show us the way.”

A new sound echoed down the corridor.

Footsteps. Even. Measured. Waiting.

And then—his voice. Controlled. Cold.

“Then come,” Norman 1 called out, just beyond the light.

——-

The corridor ahead narrowed—sleek, sterile, and humming faintly beneath their feet. It didn’t feel like the rest of the facility. This part hadn’t seen fire. It hadn’t seen blood. This was meant to stay clean.

Gwen kept one hand on MJ’s arm, her fingers tightening with each step. The silence wasn’t empty—it was waiting. Watching.

Peter 2 moved in front of them without a word. His shoulders squared. His jaw was tight. Yelena and Melina followed in a loose triangle behind, weapons steady, Otto and Connors bringing up the rear.

Peter 3 was the only one who hesitated.

They turned the corner—and that’s when they saw him.

Harry.

He stood beside Peter 1, slightly behind him, tense but upright. His suit jacket hung off one shoulder, like he hadn’t noticed or hadn’t cared. His head was down. He didn’t look familiar to him. But when he looked up—when his gaze lifted—

Those eyes.

Electric blue. Sharp as broken glass and twice as deep.

Peter 3 stopped walking. His voice, barely audible:

“I’ve seen those eyes before…”

Gwen glanced at him—but didn’t ask.

Peter 1 shifted, shielding Harry instinctively as the others arrived. His eyes widened slightly when he saw them all alive, intact, together. Then softened when he met Peter 3’s gaze—some unspoken understanding passing between them.

Harry didn’t speak. He just watched. Quiet. Coiled.

From the far end of the corridor, Norman 1 stepped into view—confident, deliberate, like a man unveiling a final act.

“Oh, look at this,” he said. “A family reunion. Though some of you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Peter 2 squared his shoulders, stepping forward. “Wrong. I see a parasite.”

Norman tilted his head, amused.

Then his eyes fell on Connors.

“Connors, I expected better of you” he said. “You’re just as weak as my own.” -eyes falling on Harry. 

The room felt like it was tilting. All the pieces on the board. Every version of Peter. Both Normans. Otto. Connors. Gwen. MJ.

And at the center—

Harry.

Who opens his mouth as to speak just to close it again.

Norman 1 smirked. Satisfied.

“You can either submit or—”

“We will do no such thing,” a voice cut in.

The temperature dropped.

Norman 2.

He stepped forward from the back ranks, his coat falling into place as if the confrontation were choreographed. His posture wasn’t aggressive—it was precise. Chosen. Weaponized.

“And my blood is not weak,” Norman 2 continued, his voice calm but searing. “It never has been. You speak of power as if it were domination. But all I see is fear dressed in science.”

Norman 1’s gaze flicked toward him, sharp. “Don’t pretend to be above me.”

“Oh, I don’t pretend,” Norman 2 said smoothly. “I simply am. What you call evolved is just what has been there all the time, layered under false pretence to be a good human being.”

His eyes flicked toward Harry—softening, just for a breath. “And if you truly saw your child, you’d see strength. You’d see the one thing you never were capable of creating.”

Norman 1’s smile twisted. “She’s broken.”

“No,” Norman 2 said, stepping closer now, the others tensing behind him. “You broke him. You broke your son. And yet he still stands. That’s not weakness. That’s survival. Resilience.”

The silence crackled. Peter 1’s hand found Harry’s again, quiet and steady.

Harry was breathing through his nose now, shallow and fast—but he hadn’t moved. Hadn’t looked away. Not from either of them.

“You’re just angry,” Norman 1 said, turning back to his double, “because you see it too. That we’re the same. You’ve just… dressed your shame better.”

Norman 2’s jaw tightened—but he didn’t rise to it.

He just looked at Otto.

Then at Harry.

Then back at Norman 1.

“You talk like a man who still believes he’s the god of his own making. But look around, Norman. No one here follows you anymore. Trust me I had to learn that the hard way.”

Norman 1’s smile faded. Just slightly.

And somewhere deep in the facility—

an alarm began to pulse.

The countdown had started.

Norman 1’s smile didn’t fade this time—it snapped.

“You sanctimonious—”

He lunged forward, hand twitching toward the device at his wrist.

But Harry was faster.

He moved without thought, without command—just instinct. Body sliding between them, arms thrown wide in front of Norman 2, stance rooted like stone.

Norman 1 froze.

“Harriett,” he said, voice dark and thunderous. “Step. Away.”

Harry didn’t flinch.

His shoulders squared. Chin lifted. Gaze sharpened into a glare that could’ve sliced metal.

“My name,” he said, voice steady, razor-sharp, “is Harry.”

He took one step forward.

“Not Harriett. Not your daughter. Not your project.”

Norman 1’s lip curled. “You’d rather be belittled—reduced—by some stunted version of me… than stand with your father?”

Norman 2 didn’t even blink.

“A father should respect his child,” he said coolly. “You showed him more than once that this is not a fact.”

The tension split wide open—

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

The alarm blared louder now, red lights strobing across the corridor walls like a heartbeat unraveling.

Connors turned toward the noise, pale. “That’s the fail-safe protocol.”

Peter 1 tensed. “What does that mean?”

Connors swallowed. “It means Norman 1 just lost control of the system.”

Melina’s eyes narrowed. “Who triggered it?”

Otto moved to the nearest panel—hands flying over the console. “Someone inside. Not us.”

A flicker of static crackled across the ceiling speakers.

Then—

“Protocol override acknowledged.”

The voice was smooth, dry, familiar.

Tony.

Not flesh and blood—but unmistakably him.

“Nice reunion. Very dramatic. Cue the applause. Now move. You’ve got five minutes before this place eats itself.”

Norman 1’s expression twisted. “What is this—”

A golden spark crackled at the far end of the hallway. Then another.

Reality itself seemed to stretch—like fabric being unwoven. The air turned cold, then impossibly still.

And from the shimmer stepped Doctor Stephen Strange, cloak fluttering, expression unreadable.

“Show’s over,” Strange said, voice low. “Time to leave.”

He turned to Peter 1.

“I can only take a few.”

Tony’s voice chimed in again, almost lazily:

“I’ve got them, Strange. Get out.”

Chapter 46: Terminal Velocity

 

“Take the stairs,” Tony’s voice buzzed through the crumbling speakers. “Second hallway on the right—unless you want to try your luck outrunning structural failure. Up to you.”

Peter 1 didn’t hesitate. “This way!”

Concrete cracked beneath their feet. The sirens had taken on a higher, more erratic pitch—like the building itself was panicking.

Peter 3 stayed close to Gwen, webbing chunks of debris out of their path. Harry followed just behind Peter 1, face pale, hands clenched. His breathing was shallow, but his eyes—those blue, electric eyes—were focused. Sharp.

They reached the final door. Tony’s voice again:

“Rooftop access. Straight up, straight out. Swing northeast and don’t look down.”

Peter 1 reached for the handle.

BOOM.

The stairwell behind them lit up in green flame. Hydra agents, roaring, armed. Norman 1 surged forward in the smoke, faster than he had any right to be.

Peter 3 turned. “Go! I’ll hold them—”

But Gwen grabbed his wrist. “No. We go together.”

They slammed through the door.

The rooftop.

Open sky. Wind slicing through smoke. The city stretched wide beneath them—unreachable. Distant.

Peter 1 scanned for anchor points. “We can swing from here. Just need—”

A sound behind them.

A cry.

Gwen was gone.

Peter 3 turned in time to see Norman 1 with a fist full of Gwen’s jacket—dangling her over the edge of the rooftop like a child holding a broken doll.

Time fractured.

“No,” Peter 3 whispered. “No, no, no—”

Norman 1’s grin was cruel. “Funny, isn’t it? Always a girl. Always falling. What will you do this time?”

Peter 1 stood frozen—seeing MJ, Gwen, Harry—all falling through time in flashes.

Harry moved.

“Let her go!”

Norman 1 looked at him. Something cracked in his voice.

“You’d rather choose him over me? You’d protect that… stunted echo of a man? After everything I gave you?”

Harry stepped forward, body tense, fire in his eyes.

“I’m not yours. I never was.”

Norman 1’s grip faltered—just a flicker of madness—and he let go.

Gwen screamed.

And Harry dove.

No hesitation. No thought. Just the fall.

His body twisted mid-air—curling around her. Arms locking over her shoulders. Back angled toward the ground. He didn’t look down. Only at her.

Wind ripped past them.

Peter 3 launched himself from the roof, a cry torn from his chest.

“Gwen—Harry—!”

He fell fast—webs snapping—reaching—

Caught them.

Barely.

The three of them slammed into the glass side of the building. Peter 3’s arms locked around them both. Gwen’s breath came in broken sobs. Harry was bleeding. But breathing.

Alive.

“I got you,” Peter 3 gasped. “I got you both.”

And Gwen—barely able to speak—breathed,

“Harry are you crazy?”

Harry didn’t say anything, looked to the ground, blue eyes transmitting guilt. Shame? Regret?

Peter exhaled, thinking of his two best friends he lost, in a similar manner.

—-

Back on the rooftop.

Norman 1 straightened slowly, almost dazed. He stared over the edge where Gwen had vanished, expecting—what? Screams? A body?

All he saw was silence. Smoke curling upward.

And Peter 1.

Standing across from him now, breathing hard. Something new in his stance. Not rage. Not even vengeance.

Resolve.

“You dropped her,” Peter 1 said, low. “A version of Norman Osborn made the same choice. Again.”

Norman’s lip curled. “And this time I made sure no one could catch her.”

“You’re wrong,” Peter 1 replied.

A flash of movement to the side—Norman 2 stepped out of the smoke, slow and steady, like he’d been waiting for this moment all his life.

“We were both wrong once,” he said. “But I’ve changed. You haven’t. That’s the difference.”

Norman 1 laughed, short and bitter. “You think you’re better than me? Because you learned to play nice? Because you dressed your guilt in redemption?”

Norman 2’s gaze didn’t waver.

“No. I’m better,” he said, voice like steel, “because I chose to stop being you.”

Norman 1 lunged—the serum still thick in his blood, muscles snapping like cords. Peter 1 was faster.

He intercepted the swing, webbing Norman’s wrist, yanking him forward—and Norman 2 struck from the side.

The three collided—fist, metal, rage.

Peter ducked a punch, landed two—one to the ribs, one to the jaw. Norman 1 staggered, but didn’t fall.

Norman 2 moved like someone dancing with ghosts—every hit calculated. Not angry. Just inevitable.

“You lost your son, didn’t you?” he said between blows. “But you don’t get to take what’s mine.”

Norman 1 roared, throwing Peter 1 back, slamming Norman 2 into the ground with a metallic crunch.

He raised his arm—ready to strike—

And paused.

Harry was there.

Back on the roof.

Bloodied, breathless, but upright. Gwen leaning on Peter 3 behind him.

Harry didn’t speak.

He just looked at Norman.

Norman turned slowly—still breathing hard, face twisted in disbelief.

“Harriet—”

No reply.

Harry didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

He walked up to him—

—and knocked him out with one clean hit.

Norman crumpled.

Silence.

Harry stood over him, chest heaving.

Peter 1 didn’t move. Norman 2 just stared.

And Peter 3—still holding Gwen—smiled through the ache in his ribs.

No one said a word.

There was nothing left to say.

Chapter 47: An Assembly ( and EXPLoSIVES) Required

 

The rooftop was still smoking when the others arrived—Strange through a portal, Tony’s voice still buzzing in their ears.

“Vitals stable. All accounted for. Well… mostly. Norman’s unconscious, but that’s a win in my book.”

Peter 1 helped Harry sit down. He hadn’t said much since the punch—just kept breathing like he was waiting for the world to hit back.

Peter 3 sat beside Gwen, who hadn’t stopped watching Harry.

Norman 2 knelt beside Norman 1, checking his pulse with clinical detachment. “He’ll live,” he muttered. “Shame.”

“Do it,” Peter 1 said.

Norman 2 looked up. “Are you sure?”

Harry nodded.

Connors stepped forward, clutching the vial with both hands like it was a live grenade. His hands were still shaking.

“Administering the reversal agent now,” he said quietly. “Serum’s half-bonded, so he’ll resist it, but…”

He injected it into Norman 1’s neck. The man flinched. Twitched. Then went limp again.

“Antidote administered,” Tony confirmed. 

“Nice work, Doctor Lizard.” - Connor’s shot Peter 3 a confused look - “Let’s try not to mutate him this time.”

And then—

BANG.

“GET DOWN!” a voice shouted, far too cheerfully.

Everyone dropped instinctively as Alexei came sprinting onto the roof, arms full of what looked like salvaged explosives, wires, and maybe part of a vending machine.

“I GOT THE CHARGES!” he yelled, thrilled.

Yelena came up behind him, looking like she wanted to drop-kick him off the ledge. “You were supposed to wait.”

Alexei grinned. “I did wait. Ten minutes. Very patient. Like hero.”

Tony chimed in:

“Oh great. Red Guardian’s got bombs. That’s always my favorite Tuesday.”

Melina sighed, stepping through the portal with arms crossed. “Can we please just detonate the building and leave like normal people?”

“No,” Otto said. “We’re all far too dramatic for that.”

Strange opened another portal with a flick of his fingers. “Evac route’s ready. Take your wounded. Take your psychopaths. Take your idiots.”

Alexei waved. “I AM ALL THREE!”

As the countdown ticked down and Oscorp’s structure began to groan under the weight of its own collapse, Peter 1 and Norman 2 dragged Norman 1’s unconscious body to the center of the roof.

“Can’t we just throw him into the crater?” Yelena asked flatly.

“No,” Peter said. “That’s the easy way out. He answers for this. All of it.”

Melina handed over a reinforced containment collar—Oscorp-made, ironically. “It’ll hold him until a cell can.”

Harry didn’t look at his father as they locked the collar in place.

He just said, “Make sure they spell my name right in the report.”

They took him through the portal with the others—Norman 1 strapped down, barely breathing, eyes fluttering beneath his lids.

Strange raised a brow as he glanced at the restrained form.

“I don’t suppose I could leave him in the Mirror Dimension for a few decades?”

“No,” Peter 1 muttered. “We’re better than that.”

Tony’s voice, crackling in from a mobile unit, added:

“I vote maximum security, no windows, and reruns of The Golden Girls on loop. Every. Day.”

No one argued.

Oscorp exploded behind them in a pillar of flame.

Alexei whooped as they landed in the grass.

“I love science!” he declared.

 

 

Chapter 48: Ashes and After

The portal spat them out into silence.

No alarms. No flames. No screaming. Just the breath of wind through tall grass and the crackle of the broken porch light outside the Stark safehouse.

It was the first time in hours—maybe days—that no one was shouting.

Peter 1 kept one hand on Harry’s back as they stepped out, like he was still afraid he might disappear if he let go. Harry didn’t shrug it off. He didn’t say anything at all. Just kept moving forward, eyes on the ground, as if the weight of everything was finally sinking into his bones.

Yelena made a noise somewhere between relief and frustration and muttered, “Never doing rooftop missions again.”

Tony’s voice—dry, distant—flickered from the old monitor by the kitchen window.

“Welcome home, dumbasses. Don’t mind the mess—I updated the fridge AI while you were gone. It’s British now. Sorry.”

Inside, the house smelled like dust, disinfectant, and something Melina had apparently kept warm on the stove. Sam rolled his shoulders with a wince. Gwen sank into the couch and didn’t move.

Peter 3 hovered at the doorway, one foot still outside. He looked at Gwen like she was a ghost and like she was real—all at once. She didn’t look back yet. Her eyes were on Harry.

He hadn’t sat down. Just stood near the kitchen counter, still in the shredded remains of his gear, blood dried into his collar.

That’s when his phone buzzed.

Everyone paused—just for a second—as he pulled it from his pocket.

Unknown number. But not unfamiliar.

He answered.

“Osborn.”
“This line is compromised,” the voice on the other end snapped. “You deviated from mission parameters.”
“I got the intel.”
“You didn’t extract the intel. You weren’t alone. You let them interfere. And Hydra isn’t gone.”
“We broke the facility.”
“You failed.”

There was a pause. Just breathing.

“The debt is not paid.”

A beat—then the phone was gently taken from Harry’s shaking fingers.

“This is Captain America speaking,” Sam said, calm and firm. “Whatever it is he has to pay for—it’s done. And I’d advise you to let the boy go. It should be his decision to go on missions, not something forced on him by some man in his late forties.”

“Sam Wilson. Well, we had a contract. Just like dear Mrs. Romanoff had with the CIA. Interpol doesn’t play games, sir. But if he were to transfer—to your team—he would still carry the burden. That would mean you’re taking it on yourself. What you do with him after… is outside our jurisdiction.”

“I agree. Agent Osborn may join us. If he wants to.”

“That is not part of the deal.”

“No. It’s not part of your idea of it.”

“Very well. Tell the assassin to send back his gear and ID.”

Click.

The line went dead.

Harry stood there for a moment, staring at the phone still in Sam’s hand. He didn’t move.

Then Sam gave it back. Quietly. No pressure. Just a look.

And then, evenly: “They don’t get to decide your worth, kid.”

Harry’s voice came slow. Rough.

“I was supposed to fix it. And I did so much. And still, it doesn’t account for what I was forced to do before I was ‘freed.’”

“You did more than fix it,” Sam said. “You saved lives. That’s what counts. And if you want to keep doing that… there’s a place for you. With us. No more secret missions. No more collars. Just choice.”

Harry looked up.

Peter hadn’t let go of him.

And for the first time since the rooftop, Harry leaned into it—just a little.

——

Porch Light

The house had fallen quiet again, save for the low hum of Tony’s voice now filtering through the living room speakers—some low-effort commentary about food rations and how no one ever restocked the espresso.

Gwen sat outside on the porch steps, knees tucked up to her chest. The stars were faint, washed out by the haze of distant citylight, but still there. Still holding.

Peter 3 hovered just inside the door, half-in, half-out, unsure whether he was allowed to follow.

She didn’t say his name. Just looked at him.

He sat beside her. Not close. Not far. Enough.

Wind moved her hair. She didn’t tuck it back.

“I don’t know what I expected,” she said finally.

Peter didn’t answer.

She added, quieter, “You looked at me like I was supposed to remember something.”

He swallowed. “You were supposed to be gone.”

Her head turned slightly. “Gone?”

He gave a bitter half-smile. “In my world, I couldn’t save you. The fall—very similar to yours—it broke everything.”
It broke me.

Gwen was quiet for a long time. “That’s not my story.”

“I know.”

“But it feels like it could be.”

He turned his face away. “I still see it. Every time I close my eyes.”

She didn’t reach for him. But she said, “You caught me this time.”

His breath hitched. “Yeah. I did.”

The silence returned. Not empty—earned.

Then, softly, “What was my favorite band?”

He blinked. “Excuse me?”

“In your world. If I were… me.”

Peter smiled faintly. “Florence and the Machine. You said she sang like she was tearing her own heart out and making it dance.”

Gwen smiled too. “Still sounds like me.”

“You have someone—in your dimension?” she asked.

Peter just stared straight ahead. He let out a huff. The air was crisp—hot breath meeting cold night.

“No. Not anymore. I know you don’t know me, but I want you to know… Gwen meant a lot to me. After she fell, and I couldn’t catch her properly, I decided I didn’t have time for Peter Parker stuff anymore.”

“I guessed that I meant more to you—in that universe. And I’m sorry, for your loss, Peter. But… you know, I lost someone too. My first girlfriend—she died in a car crash when I was fifteen. The driver was my former best friend. He survived. I was angry. I told him it was his fault.

“But it wasn’t. It was the drunk driver who rammed them. Afterwards, I blamed myself. She could’ve just stayed with me instead of taking that ride. I lost myself, for a while.

“My dad forced me to go to therapy. It didn’t help at first. What helped was… deciding to claim my life back. Slowly. I went out again. I went to uni. I met Peter and Mary Jane. I let myself heal. And eventually, I texted that former best friend. I told him I was sorry for blaming him.”

She turned to face him, voice quiet but steady.

“You know, sometimes we don’t need bravery in the form of heroism. Sometimes it’s enough to take a little step forward. To reclaim yourself.”

Peter didn’t answer right away.

He watched the way Gwen’s eyes glinted under the porch light—just barely—and thought of someone else. A different rooftop. A different fall. Someone else he couldn’t save.

Harry.

The way his voice had cracked that last time they spoke. How tightly he’d clung to anger, because forgiveness would’ve meant facing everything beneath it.

Peter had tried, back then. Too late. Too scared. Too young.

He looked at this Gwen—her pain shaped differently, her strength shining through anyway—and felt something shift.

Maybe it wasn’t too late for everyone.

Maybe some ghosts didn’t have to stay ghosts.

He exhaled.

“I think he’d like you,” Peter said, without meaning to.

Gwen turned her head. “Who?”

“A friend. From home.”

She waited, but he didn’t elaborate. Just offered the faintest smile and let the silence stretch again—this time not from grief, but from something softer. Something close to peace.

——

Some time later, Harry sat alone in the big window of the den. Legs drawn up, shoulder pressed to the cold glass. He hadn’t changed clothes yet. The blood had cracked on his skin, flaking off like ash. He didn’t mind.

He just… stared.

Into the dark. Into nothing.

The door creaked open behind him.

He didn’t turn.

“Your posture is terrible,” Norman 2 said gently.

Harry huffed something like a laugh.

Norman stepped further into the room, then sat down on the edge of the armchair closest to the window. Close enough to share the silence, far enough not to crowd it.

“I was watching you,” he said after a while. “On the rooftop. And the hallway before that. I don’t think you realize how much strength it takes… to not become what they built you to be.”

Harry’s voice came out hoarse. “Feels like I already did.”

“No. You survived it. That’s different.”

“I didn’t stop it.”

“You weren’t meant to. Not alone.”

Harry looked over, finally, eyes red-rimmed and tired. “You said that like someone who knows.”

Norman met his gaze, unflinching. “I do.”

The wind hit the glass softly. Neither of them moved.

Then Norman added, quietly, “You remind me of the best parts of myself. The parts I lost. And I am beyond proud of you. I’m sorry it took me so long to say it.”

Harry watched him. Blue gaze meeting same blue eyes.

“You saw me, instead of her. Why?”

“Because I learned it the hard way. To force something onto someone else that doesn’t fit them…” Norman paused, the breath catching in his throat. “I lost my own son. Harry. He was born cis, but I tried to put him into boxes. I always compared him to Peter. Sent him away to boarding school in Europe. After I died, he became a second version of me. And then he died… redeeming both of us.

“After I came back—yes, I’ve been here before—Otto was all I had left. My son didn’t come back from the dead. And that’s a responsibility I carry every day. Something that could’ve been prevented. So now I try to be better. To do better.

“You’re a version of my son. And I’m proud of who you are. Of who you choose not to be.”

Harry didn’t respond at first.

He looked back out the window, lashes low, as if the night outside might somehow explain the ache in his chest. His fingers twitched slightly against the glass.

“I don’t feel like someone to be proud of,” he said finally. “I feel like a mistake that kept surviving.”

Norman didn’t flinch. “You’re not.”

“You didn’t see what I did when I was theirs.”

“I saw what you did when you weren’t.”

Harry’s throat worked. He looked younger, somehow—frighteningly so. Like the boy who was sent away. Like the man who had to come back and pretend it hadn’t mattered.

“I used to think if I just performed well enough—if I was quiet, sharp, useful—they’d stop trying to rewrite me.”

He exhaled, bitterly. “But they just kept editing.”

Norman leaned forward slightly, elbows on knees. “You were not made to be someone else’s version of perfect.”

“I don’t know how to be anything else.”

“You don’t have to know yet,” Norman said. “You just have to want to be something that’s yours.”

Harry turned back toward him, lip trembling, barely visible in the soft light from the hallway.

“Do you think he’d forgive me?” he asked, and they both knew who he was.

Peter.

Norman’s voice cracked, but only slightly.

“I think he already has.”

Harry blinked. The silence pressed in again, but this time it felt warmer.

He leaned his head back against the window. Closed his eyes. His voice was quieter than ever.

“I’m tired.”

“I know,” Norman said gently. “You can rest now.”

A pause.

“You’re not alone anymore.”

And then—

A soft creak.

Norman looked toward the hallway and saw him—Peter.

He stood just inside the doorway, silhouetted by the amber hallway light, eyes gentle and unreadable, arms crossed loosely like he didn’t know what to do with them.

He must’ve heard most of it.

Norman gave a small nod, then stood.

“I’ll let you two to it,” he murmured, brushing a hand lightly over Harry’s shoulder in passing. “Goodnight, Harold.”

And then he was gone—quiet as the wind.

Harry stayed still.

He didn’t open his eyes until he felt it:

A warm hand on his shoulder. Then two arms—careful, slow—sliding around him from behind.

Peter’s voice, right beside his ear.

“Come to bed with me?”

Harry let out a shaky breath.

He didn’t answer. Just leaned back.

And this time, he let himself be held.

Chapter 49: The Thing We Are

---

 

The Thing We Are

The bedroom was dark, except for the faint blue glow of the old arc reactor lamp on the desk.

Peter closed the door behind them with his foot, arms still loosely around Harry’s waist. He didn’t let go—not really. Just adjusted the hold so Harry could sit on the bed without losing that warmth.

Harry didn’t speak.

Peter didn’t push.

He just sat beside him, their shoulders pressed together, the silence between them deep and steady.

Outside, the world had stopped screaming. Inside, it was just two boys in borrowed clothes, stitched together by grief and history, pretending—just for tonight—that the war was over.

Harry was the first to break the quiet.

His voice was barely above a whisper.

“What are we, Pete?”

Peter blinked. Turned slowly.

The question wasn’t uncertain. It wasn’t afraid.

It was honest.

And Peter—God, he tried to think of something clever. Something safe. Something that would let them float in that in-between a little longer.

But he didn’t.

He looked at Harry. Really looked at him.

The scars. The softness. The storm still sitting behind his eyes.

And then—

He kissed him.

No hesitation. No warning. Just a gentle press of lips, shaky with breath but steady in intent.

Harry didn’t move at first.

Then he melted.

Hands in Peter’s hair. Forehead pressed to his. Breaths catching in sync.

When they pulled back, Harry was smiling. Barely.

Peter was breathless.

“I don’t know,” he whispered. “But I want to find out. With you.”

Harry nodded.

“I think… that’s enough for now.”

And this time, he kissed Peter back.

They didn’t speak for a while.

There was no need.

Harry lay back first, still in his ruined clothes, one arm half-curled beneath his head. Peter followed, collapsing beside him, close enough to touch but not assuming it. He didn’t want to break whatever fragile peace they’d stepped into.

But then Harry reached out. Just his fingers at first—finding Peter’s.

A tether.

Peter took his hand and held it like it was sacred.

“I used to dream about this,” Harry said softly, staring up at the ceiling. “Back when I didn’t think I’d make it out. I’d picture it. A bed. Warm light. Not having to watch my back.”

Peter turned his head. “Was I in it?”

Harry didn’t look away from the ceiling. “Always.”

Peter squeezed his hand, voice quieter now. “I used to wait for you to call.”

“I know.”

“I thought I did something wrong.”

“You didn’t.”

Peter’s breath caught.

He rolled toward him, hand brushing lightly over Harry’s cheek, his thumb grazing the faint freckle just below his eye. Harry leaned into the touch like it was gravity.

“I missed you,” Peter whispered.

“I was always yours to miss.”

Peter kissed him again, slower this time. Not the heat of desperation—just something soft, steady. Like a promise with no expiration date.

When they broke apart, Harry curled into him without a word, pressing his face into Peter’s chest.

“I don’t want to be alone,” he mumbled.

“You’re not,” Peter murmured into his hair. “You’re not.”

Outside, the wind moved through the trees. Inside, two hearts steadied against each other.

And for the first time in a long time, Harry slept.

Not because he had to.

But because he felt safe.

——

The sunlight had started creeping in through the slats of the blinds, slow and golden and painfully real. The kind of light that made everything look softer—except hangovers, and feelings.

Peter stirred first.

He blinked against the glow, body aching in that warm, heavy way that meant he’d actually slept. Really slept.

Harry was still curled into him, his breath warm against Peter’s collarbone, one hand fisted gently in his shirt like he was afraid letting go might undo everything.

Peter smiled before he could stop himself.

Then—

“Aw. Would you look at that.”

Peter startled so hard he nearly fell off the bed.

“Tony?” he croaked, still half-asleep.

The AI flickered to life on the small corner display across the room, voice unmistakably smug.

“Sorry to interrupt your post-apocalyptic cuddle puddle, but it’s 9:00 a.m., and someone’s gonna want to debrief you two lovebirds. Preferably after you put pants on.”

Harry groaned into Peter’s chest. “Make it stop.”

“No can do, Junior Osborn. This is my house, my rules, and—surprise—I’m the AI with eyes in every room. You think I wasn’t gonna check in after the whole building-collapse-megalomaniac situation?”

Peter flushed. “You spied on us?”

Tony’s projection appeared now—a flickering silhouette in casual Stark-form, arms crossed, faux-offended.

“Spied? Please. I parented. Very delicately, I might add.”

Harry peeled one eye open. “This isn’t parenting. This is harassment.”

“Oh, trust me, kiddo. You have not seen Stark-level harassment. This is me being gentle. But hey—real talk?” The AI flickered a moment, and the smirk dropped to something that felt… closer.

“I’m proud of you. Both of you. You survived. You found your way back. You let yourselves rest.”

A beat.

Then: “Now get your asses up. We’ve got, like, four debriefings, two broken Avengers, one morally ambiguous lizard scientist, and a very romantic farewell portal situation to deal with.”

Peter groaned. “You couldn’t just let us have a morning?”

Tony raised a ghostly brow. “I let you have seven hours. That’s basically a honeymoon in superhero time.”

Harry sighed. “I hate how much I love him.”

“Don’t we all,” Peter muttered.

They didn’t move right away.

But when they did, they moved together.

—-

The sun had fully risen by the time they made it downstairs.

Gwen stood in the hallway with Peter 1 and Sam, her hands clasped in front of her, as Strange traced the final sigils in the air. The glow of the portal shimmered like heat on pavement, stable and waiting.

Norman 2 stood a few steps back with Otto, their shoulders brushing, hands clinging to each other. Neither of them spoke, but something passed between them—a goodbye already half-felt.

Peter 3 moved last, hands in his pockets, eyes flicking from face to face like he was cataloguing something he’d never see again. When he reached Gwen, he didn’t speak right away.

She smiled first. Just a little.

“Come back sometime,” she said.

His laugh was quiet, tired. “If the universe allows it.”

She touched his arm, brief and feather-light. “I hope it does.”

Then she stepped back—and Peter 3 turned to Peter 1.

They didn’t hug right away. Just looked at each other.

“You’ve got good people,” Peter 3 said. “Don’t lose them.”

Peter 1 nodded. “I won’t.”

Peter 3 glanced past him—eyes finding Harry.

He walked over, slower this time. Careful.

“You did good,” he said, voice low. “And I know that’s not always enough, but… it was. Today, it was.”

Harry swallowed. “Whatever I’m responsible for in your world… I’m sure there was a reason. And I’m sorry it happened to you. But if he’s still alive—he probably still loves you.”

Peter 3 didn’t know what to say.

So he just stepped in and hugged him.

It was short.

It was everything.

Otto was next—surprisingly gentle as he pulled Peter 1 into a half-embrace. “Keep tinkering, kid. You’re almost as stubborn as he was,” he said, nodding toward Peter 2.

Peter 2 smirked. “I’m sure we’ll see each other again. Hopefully on more peaceful terms.”

Then Norman stepped toward Harry.

He didn’t speak. Just opened his arms.

An invitation, not an expectation.

Harry took it.

He let himself be pulled in, chest to chest, and Norman’s hand threaded gently into his hair—one soft stroke, like he was trying to memorize the feeling.

When they pulled apart, Norman looked him in the eyes. His own were shining.

“I’m proud of you, son. I see you. Do me a favor and stay true to yourself. There are already enough assholes on this planet.”

Harry’s voice broke, just slightly. “I’ll try—Dad.”

Norman smiled, eyes wet, and said nothing more. Just gave a last glance, took Otto’s hand—

And stepped through the portal.

Then Peter 3 followed.

He paused—just for a second—at the threshold.

Looked back.

Saw all of them there: Gwen. Peter. Harry. Sam. Melina. Yelena. Alexei.

A family, sort of. Forged in flame and stitched with something like love.

He nodded once.

And then he was gone.

The portal snapped shut behind him with a final, quiet hum.

The room was still.

Harry reached for Peter’s hand without looking.

Peter held on.

And outside, the wind moved through the trees like a song someone hadn’t finished yet.

—-

Chapter 50: Let Down

Summary:

The end.

Notes:

Thank you so much for reading! This is the last chapter and I hope you enjoyed this weird AU.

I appreciate each and everyone of you. Take care of yourself.

The cemetery was old. Quiet. The kind of quiet that pressed against your ribs—not empty, but full.

The Osborn family plot was tucked beneath a crooked willow tree, where the sun broke in thin gold lines through half-dead leaves. The wind moved slow here, like it knew what kind of place it was.

Norman stood alone in front of the grave.

The headstone was simple. Too simple.

HARRY OSBORN
Beloved Son
1984 – 2007
He Tried to Save Us

Norman didn’t speak at first. He just stood there, gloved hands in his coat pockets, shoulders drawn in tight against a grief that had long since stopped being new—but never stopped being sharp.

Then, finally, he said:

“I didn’t come here for forgiveness.”

His voice was quieter than the breeze.

“I know I don’t deserve it. Not from you. Not from the world.”

He swallowed.

“But I needed to say your name again. My son. Harry.”

The silence held him like water, thick and cold.

“I see pieces of you everywhere,” he murmured. “In the way people fight to protect what they love. In how fiercely they carry anger, and how hard it is to let go of pain.”

He looked down. His breath stuttered in the air.

“You deserved better. You deserved time. You deserved… to come back.”

A long pause.

Then: “I’m proud of you.”

Behind him, a soft crunch of footsteps over leaves.

Otto had been standing back beneath the willow, letting the wind carry Norman’s voice wherever it needed to go. He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t speak.

Just stepped forward.

Stopped beside Norman.

And reached for his hand.

Their fingers laced. A squeeze. Not asking. Not fixing. Just there.

Norman let out a long, trembling breath.

And together, they turned.

And walked away.

——

The walls of Ravencroft weren’t white like in the movies.

They were gray. Dull. Scraped. Old paint curling like skin around the vents. The light overhead buzzed and stuttered every few seconds, like even it was trying to leave.

There was no sound. Not really. Just the hum of surveillance, and the distant metallic groan of the next locked door.

Harry Osborn—this Harry, the one left behind—sat alone in his cell.

The cot was bolted to the floor. The window was shatterproof. The mirror was metal, not glass. Nothing in this room could be broken.

Except him.

He didn’t look up when the door opened—back turned toward it, staring at his own reflection. The only person he’d seen in a long time that wasn’t someone trying to hurt him.

Didn’t react when Peter 3 stepped inside, flanked by guards who didn’t bother drawing weapons.

He just sat.

Peter didn’t speak right away.

He walked over slowly, pulled something from his jacket, and set it on the metal desk in the center of the room.

An old iPod. Scuffed. Dented.

But when he clicked it on—
The music played.

“Transport, motorways and tramlines…”

Harry’s head turned, just barely.

Peter sat down.

Still, no words.

The music filled the silence—wavering at first, then steady.

Harry turned and stared at the iPod like it didn’t belong. Like it wasn’t allowed. Like hope wasn’t allowed.

And then, slowly, he stood up and reached out, pulling one of the earbuds toward him.

He didn’t put it in.

Just held it in his hand.

“Don’t get sentimental—it always ends up drivel.”

Peter spoke softly.

“I don’t know if you remember me.”

Harry’s gaze followed the voice. Fixed on Peter. His voice came out rasped. “I do.”

A long silence.

Then: “Why are you here?”

Peter looked at him.

“To bring something back.”

Harry laughed, but it was hollow. “You can’t bring me back. The body didn’t die—but your friend did.”

“I’m not trying to,” Peter said. “I’m just… playing the song.”

“One day, I am gonna grow wings… a chemical reaction… hysterical and useless…”

Harry’s eyes—blue, but ringed red—held his. And for the first time in years, they softened.

“I’m sorry, Pete. I should’ve died, instead of her.”

They sat in that broken quiet, side by side.

And as Let Down played on, Harry finally leaned forward—rested his forehead against the table.

Not sobbing. Not fighting.

Just breathing.

Peter didn’t move.

Didn’t need to.

The song did the rest.

The final verse crackled through the tiny speaker like a ghost—something old and half-healed.
“Floor collapsing, falling, bouncing back…”

Peter leaned forward, forearms on the table, eyes never leaving him.

“I don’t need you to come back,” he said. “I just… I needed you to know I still see you. That you mattered.”

Harry’s fingers curled tighter around the earbud in his hand.

“And if I don’t know who I am anymore?” he asked, voice thin. “If there’s nothing left to see?”

Peter gave the faintest smile. Sad. Steady.

“Then I’ll stay until you remember. And if you don’t… I’ll still stay.”

The song ended.

Silence settled like dust.

Harry finally slid the earbud into his ear. Just one. A tether. Not a surrender.

Peter pressed play again.

And this time, they listened together.

 

—

Notes:

Thank you for reading, I really appreciate it. If you have any suggestions, I’d be happy if you’d leave a comment. Or some kudos ;)