Professor Curt Connors stood alone in his laboratory, staring at the glass containment cabinet in front of him.
Inside the cabinet were a dozen small compartments.
Eleven of them held lifeless white mice.
One of them contained something extraordinary.
A living mouse.
Its missing limb had regenerated.
Perfectly.
For a few seconds, Connors forgot to breathe.
His remaining left hand trembled slightly.
Years of failure.
Years of humiliation.
Years of obsession.
And now—
The first successful mammalian limb regeneration experiment.
His mind raced with possibilities. Medical breakthroughs. Healing the disabled. Restoring amputees. Giving soldiers their limbs back.
Giving himself his arm back.
His gaze dropped to the empty sleeve of his right side.
For just one heartbeat, pure joy filled him.
Then reality returned.
The Osborn Group was under military supervision.
And that supervision was led by General Thaddeus Ross.
Connors slowly exhaled.
The joy vanished.
He stepped forward and powered down the experiment logs.
He did not alert anyone.
He did not celebrate.
He did not record the breakthrough in the main system.
Instead—
He prepared to abandon the successful subject.
Because success, under the wrong eyes, was more dangerous than failure.
---
Connors had heard the stories.
Like his colleague Miles Warren, he followed academic circles closely.
Ross was infamous.
Gamma experiments.
Military secrecy.
Unethical trials.
Connors suspected the truth long before today.
If Ross learned of this breakthrough, human trials would follow.
Immediate.
Unregulated.
Unfinished science turned into fatal experimentation.
Norman Osborn had already fallen because of similar ambition.
Connors would not repeat that mistake.
---
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Three sharp raps on the glass door.
Connors stiffened.
Through the transparent barrier stood General Ross, hands behind his back, several soldiers stationed behind him like statues.
Connors forced his expression into exhaustion. He rubbed his forehead with his left hand, hiding any trace of triumph.
"Come in."
Ross entered alone.
His white hair, thick beard, and lined face gave him the appearance of age. But his eyes—sharp and calculating—betrayed nothing of weakness.
"Professor Connors."
"General," Connors replied coldly. "I'm in the middle of work. This isn't a good time."
Ross ignored the dismissal.
"I'm not here to observe. I want an update. Your reptile gene research. What stage are you at?"
Inside, Connors' stomach tightened.
So it begins.
He adopted his usual tone — the one he used after countless failures.
"The experiment remains theoretical, General."
Ross stared at him for several seconds.
Connors lowered his gaze deliberately to his empty sleeve.
"More than anyone, I want this to work. I wish my arm could grow back right now."
He let bitterness color his voice.
"But it can't."
Ross shifted his attention toward the glass cabinet.
Connors' heart pounded.
The lone living mouse moved slightly in its compartment.
It stood out like a spotlight in darkness.
Ross stepped closer.
"Professor… this one?"
Connors' mind raced.
He needed a distraction.
He needed something immediate.
And then—
The door opened abruptly.
---
Clark rushed inside.
Breathing lightly, holding a clipboard.
"I'm sorry, Professor," he said quickly. "I made an error yesterday. One mouse wasn't injected with the reagent."
Connors reacted instantly.
He turned sharply, voice harsh.
"I hope this only happens once. If it happens again, you're removed from my lab."
Clark lowered his head in embarrassment.
Perfectly timed.
Perfectly ordinary.
To Ross, it appeared nothing more than a careless assistant mistake.
Ross studied them both.
Then he nodded once.
"I expect progress soon, Professor."
And he left.
The door closed.
The soldiers followed.
Silence returned.
---
Connors exhaled deeply.
He had been seconds away from exposure.
He turned toward Clark.
Then he looked carefully at the ID badge.
Clark.
But he knew that name.
Harry Osborn had once used that alias during his early days inside the company.
Connors narrowed his eyes.
"You're not Harry. Who are you?"
Clark stepped closer and lowered his voice.
"I'm Peter Parker. Harry's friend."
Connors did not relax.
"And why are you here?"
"To expose General Ross."
Connors frowned.
"I've already concealed my results. There's nothing more to expose."
Peter shook his head.
"There's an email in your inbox. From a private investigation agency. You need to read it."
Connors hesitated only briefly before turning to his computer.
He opened his email.
---
The first message appeared.
It contained classified data.
Historical records.
Military archives.
Connors' eyes moved quickly across the screen.
"General Ross once commanded a missile and nuclear research facility in New Mexico…"
"Project: Gamma Bomb."
"Project Director: Dr. Bruce Banner."
"Subject Banner exposed to gamma radiation during test."
"Transformation: Hulk."
Connors' face stiffened.
Gamma rays.
Hulk.
He had heard rumors.
But this was documentation.
He barely finished reading before the email self-erased.
Gone.
No trace.
Immediately, a second email appeared.
This one contained experimental logs.
Not Banner's.
Norman Osborn's.
Connors' jaw tightened as he read.
Super Soldier Serum trials.
Gamma radiation integration.
Behavioral instability.
Notes referencing military cooperation.
Ross' involvement.
Every line connected.
Gamma.
Genetic enhancement.
Military interest.
Connors slowly looked up at Peter.
Understanding dawned.
Ross did not care about limb regeneration.
He did not care about medical miracles.
He wanted something else entirely.
---
Peter spoke quietly.
"He's not here to supervise. He's here to build."
Connors' throat tightened.
"Build what?"
Peter met his eyes.
"Hulks."
The word hung in the air.
Connors felt a chill despite the laboratory lights.
Mass-production.
Gamma exposure combined with regenerative gene manipulation.
If Ross merged Connors' reptilian regeneration breakthrough with Banner's gamma data—
The result could be stabilized Hulk variants.
Creatures capable of healing rapidly.
Immense strength.
Military control.
An army.
Connors whispered, almost to himself:
"He wants to industrialize mutation."
Peter nodded.
"And your success just moved his timeline forward."
Connors felt a wave of anger rise within him.
He had dedicated his life to healing.
To restoring.
To giving back what was lost.
And now—
His research was almost weaponized.
---
Far away, in Wyoming…
Inside the Cube Prison…
Bruce Banner sat suspended in alloy restraints.
Monitors beeped outside his cell.
His blood sample was degrading rapidly.
Scientists panicked quietly.
Ross reviewed transport protocols.
Banner smiled faintly in the darkness.
He had expected this.
If they couldn't replicate Hulk from blood—
They would need him alive.
And when that happened—
Hulk would breathe.
---
Back in New York, Connors turned away from the monitor.
He paced slowly.
"What do you suggest?" he asked Peter.
"For now? Continue pretending nothing has succeeded."
Connors nodded slowly.
"And if Ross accelerates?"
Peter's eyes sharpened.
"Then we force exposure."
Connors studied the young man.
He had seen intelligence before.
But this was calculation.
Cold.
Strategic.
"Who are you really?" Connors asked softly.
Peter smiled faintly.
"Someone who doesn't want another monster created."
---
Connors returned to the cabinet.
He stared at the living mouse.
Its limb was whole.
Perfect.
He reached into the compartment gently.
His left hand hovered over the creature.
Then he closed the door instead.
He would not destroy the evidence.
But he would hide it.
Protect it.
Until it could be used for healing — not war.
---
Later that evening, General Ross stood alone in a secure office inside Osborn Tower.
He reviewed cross-country reports.
Gamma instability.
Banner sample degrading.
Connors' lab under watch.
He did not look frustrated.
He looked patient.
His ambition was clear.
The Hulk had proven the concept.
Uncontrolled, yes.
But powerful.
If that power could be stabilized…
Disciplined…
Replicated…
No nation could oppose it.
No battlefield could resist it.
Ross looked out over the city skyline.
His reflection in the glass appeared older than his ambition.
"Mass production," he muttered.
"Control the monster… control the world."
---
In the shadows across the building, Batman observed.
Clark stood in the hallway, invisible as always.
But inside, calculations intensified.
Ross was not experimenting blindly.
He was engineering a future.
An army of controlled Hulks.
Gamma-enhanced soldiers.
Regenerative war machines.
This was not science.
It was escalation.
And Batman understood one truth clearly:
If Ross succeeded—
The world would never return to normal.
And somewhere in the desert…
A restrained scientist waited.
Somewhere in a laboratory…
A regenerated limb existed.
Somewhere in the darkness…
A general dreamed of green giants marching in formation.
But ambition often overlooks one detail.
Monsters cannot always be controlled.
And hunters do not sleep.
------------------------------------------------
180+ chapters available in patreon🔥🔥🔥🔥
patreon.com/Dragonscribe31
----------------------------------------------------- .