Inside Precinct 21, the atmosphere was thick with the smell of stale coffee and the hum of high-voltage interrogation lights. While Huang Liang and Peter Parker were busy being scolded back at the martial arts school, the man who had nearly turned a city block into a crater was currently sitting in a reinforced chair, surrounded by a ring of Jack's most trusted officers.
Jack stood at the edge of the light, his arms crossed. He had a lingering coldness in his eyes that made even his own subordinates uncomfortable. He knew about the "Three Tuxedos" legacy—he was one of them, after all. But looking at the silent, armored figure of the Green Goblin, Jack felt a prickle of unease. He knew that if he were standing here alone, without his gear or his team, he'd be nothing more than a speed bump to this monster. Luckily, Jack wasn't alone, and he had a job to do.
"First things first," Jack's voice echoed in the cramped room, dropping an octave. "Take that bucket off his head. I want to see the face of the coward who thinks New York is his personal demolition derby."
"On it, Boss!" one of the younger officers replied, stepping forward with a pair of heavy-duty pliers to pry at the locking mechanism of the Goblin's helmet.
Norman Osborn didn't make it easy. Even though he was wrapped in the remnants of Huang Liang's specialized webbing, he thrashed like a caged beast. His muffled growls sounded less like a man and more like a starving wolf. He lunged his torso forward, trying to snap the silk, but the webs held firm—for now.
Thwack! The officer who had been struggling with the helmet lost his patience and delivered a stinging slap to the side of the Goblin's head. "Settle down! You're in a cage now, pal. Act like it!"
The room went deathly silent. Norman Osborn's body went rigid. Slowly, he turned his head, staring at the officer through the yellow lenses of the mask. It wasn't the gaze of a criminal; it was the predatory stare of an apex killer. The officer, despite his bravado, instinctively took a half-step back, his hand flying to the holster at his hip.
Feeling the sting of shame for being intimidated, the officer snarled and slapped him again, harder this time. "I said, handle it! You think those goggles make you tough? You're just a freak in a suit."
To Norman, those slaps were nothing more than the buzzing of an annoying insect. But the psychological insult was unbearable. He was the CEO of Oscorp. He was the man who had perfected the human form through science. Being struck by an "ant"—an ordinary, unenhanced human in a blue uniform—sent a surge of adrenaline through his system that made his blood feel like boiling oil.
Finally, after three officers wrestled with the catches, the helmet was yanked free with a metallic screech.
The silence that followed was even heavier than before. Several veteran officers gasped, their faces turning pale as they recognized the man underneath.
"Norman... Osborn?" Jack raised an eyebrow, his expression shifting from curiosity to a dark, knowing smirk. "Well, well. The billionaire philanthropist himself. I guess the rumors about the Super Soldier Serum weren't just boardroom gossip, were they? Did you test it on yourself, Norman? Or did the madness just come as a free side effect?"
Norman narrowed his eyes, his messy hair matted with sweat against his forehead. Even in his disheveled state, his arrogance was a palpable shield. "A police captain who knows about Project Rebirth? You're better informed than you look, 'Captain Jack.' But since you've seen my face, you should be smart enough to realize you've already lost. My legal team is likely already filing the injunctions. I haven't killed anyone today. By morning, I'll be back in my penthouse, and you'll be looking for a new career in security."
Jack chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. "No one killed? What about the bodies left at Hammer Industries? Or the trail of 'accidents' leading back to your competitors? You think because you wear a suit and tie during the day, the blood washes off?"
Jack leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "And who said anything about the world finding out it's you? The report is going to say we captured a high-tech terrorist who bears a striking resemblance to Mr. Osborn. Maybe a disgruntled former employee? The public loves a good cover-up story, Norman."
Osborn's pupils contracted. He looked around the room, expecting to see hesitation in the eyes of the other cops. Instead, he saw mocking grins. These weren't regular city cops; these were Jack's personal unit. They didn't care about his net worth.
"Are you insane?" Osborn hissed, his voice vibrating with a low frequency. "You're going to war with Oscorp? My company owns half the infrastructure in this borough. I can erase you with a phone call."
"I told you," Jack said, standing up and dusting off his uniform. "The man I caught is a killer. And as for Oscorp... do I look like a man who scares easily?"
CRACK!
The sound was like a gunshot. The spider-silk cocoon that had been binding Osborn suddenly shattered into a thousand translucent shards. The hour was up. The chemical catalyst in Huang Liang's webbing had reached its expiration point, and with a final, desperate surge of strength, Norman Osborn tore himself free.
"Hahaha! You think you can keep me in the dark?" Osborn roared, his muscles bulging beneath his tattered flight suit. "You know about the serum, but you have no idea what it actually does. It doesn't just make me stronger—it makes me superior!"
Despite the injuries sustained in his fight with the Spider-Duo, Norman moved with terrifying speed. He ignored the dozen pistols pointed at him and lunged straight for Jack.
"Don't shoot! You'll hit the Captain!" someone yelled. The officers were frozen in a deadly dilemma; the space was too small, the target too fast, and Jack was right in the line of fire.
Osborn's fist whistled through the air, aimed directly at Jack's chest. Jack barely had time to cross his arms in a defensive block.
BOOM!
The impact felt like being hit by a speeding truck. Jack was sent skidding backward, his boots smoking against the linoleum floor. He hit the far wall with a thud that knocked the wind out of him. His arms felt like they had been shattered, the bones screaming under the pressure.
Damn, Jack thought, gasping for air. His raw power is off the charts. Neither Reese nor I could take him in a fair brawl. Only Xiao Qiang has the build for this kind of heavy lifting... unless...
Jack reached into his inner pocket, his fingers brushing the cold, sleek fabric of his "Tuxedo." With a practiced motion, he activated the tech. In a shimmer of light that defied the dim interrogation room lamps, the tuxedo materialized over his body, shifting his physical stats and heightening his perception.
Norman Osborn stopped mid-stride, his eyes wide with genuine shock. "What... what kind of black-market tech is that? That's not Stark tech. That's something else entirely."
The scientist in Osborn was momentarily overwhelmed by greed. If his Green Goblin suit possessed this kind of instantaneous deployment and kinetic absorption, the military wouldn't just fund him—they'd worship him.
"You like the look?" Jack said, his voice now sounding amplified and metallic. He stepped away from the wall, his posture shifting into a classic Wing Chun stance. The "Ip Man" character pack integrated with the suit's AI, flooding Jack's brain with centuries of combat data. He beckoned Osborn forward with a mocking wave of his hand. "Come on, Norman. Let's see if that serum can keep up with modern tailoring."
"Technology is a crutch for the weak!" Osborn snarled, lunging again. He threw a haymaker aimed at Jack's temple, a blow meant to decapitate.
But this time, the world seemed to move in slow motion for Jack. The tuxedo's sensors tracked the arc of the punch, and the character pack dictated the perfect response. Jack didn't just block; he flowed.
He stepped inside the radius of the punch, his body pivoting like a well-oiled machine. He parried Osborn's forearm upward, exposing the villain's neck and throat. With a lightning-fast strike, Jack's fingers stiffened into a spear-hand, darting straight for Osborn's windpipe.