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The call came while Norman Osborn was already en route to the tower.
His son had been kidnapped. That's what the voice on the phone told him. Norman's first instinct was to dismiss it — until he tried calling Harry's bodyguard. No answer. The nanny. No answer. Harry's phone. Voicemail.
Three people, all unreachable, all at the same time. That wasn't a coincidence.
But the kidnappers didn't ask for money.
Instead, they told Norman he had forty-eight hours to rescue his son. They guaranteed Harry wouldn't be harmed during that window. If, after forty-eight hours, Norman still hadn't recovered the boy, he would be given a single condition to meet. Refusal meant Harry died.
The arrogance was deliberate. This wasn't a ransom — it was a game. They wanted Norman to exhaust every resource, every contact, every favor he'd ever accumulated. They wanted him to feel the full weight of his own helplessness. And when he was broken, when forty-eight hours of failure had stripped him of everything except desperation — then they'd make their demand.
Something he would never agree to under normal circumstances.
Norman slammed his fist into the seat hard enough to crack the leather.
He forced himself to breathe. He was Norman Osborn. He'd built a billion-dollar empire by thinking clearly when other men panicked. He could do this.
The kidnappers didn't want cash. If they did, there'd be no reason for the forty-eight-hour window — they'd just name a number. Assembling large quantities of physical currency in the US was a nightmare anyway. Bills over fifty drew law enforcement attention. You needed twenties, and gathering enough twenties to satisfy a major ransom took days even for someone with Osborn's resources.
No. These people wanted leverage. They wanted Norman desperate enough to say yes to something unthinkable.
His phone rang again. Norman snatched it up.
"What else do you want from me?"
A young voice. Calm. Not the kidnappers.
"Mr. Osborn, my name is Kade Lawson. I'm a technical consultant with Stark Industries —"
Norman almost hung up. He didn't have time for a business call. He didn't care how this person had gotten his private number.
"I'm busy." His thumb was already on the end-call button.
"I have information about your son. Interested?"
Norman's blood went cold.
"What did you just say? Is Stark Industries behind this? You people have the nerve to kidnap —"
"Mr. Osborn, slow down. I didn't kidnap anyone. I was standing outside your building when it happened — I was there for our meeting, remember? Your office scheduled it. I just happened to witness the whole thing."
Norman's mind raced. The Stark Industries appointment. That was real — his secretary had confirmed it earlier today. A coincidence?
It didn't matter. If this man was willing to talk, Norman would listen.
"You saw the kidnappers?"
"I'm doing better than that. I'm tracking the vehicle right now. I can send you its location whenever you want."
Norman didn't trust it. But he couldn't afford to dismiss it either.
"What do you want in return?"
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Kade said. "I can send coordinates, but the car is still moving. For Harry's safety, I'd recommend waiting before making any moves. Especially since —" a pause — "the vehicle they used is one of yours. An Oscorp-registered Mercedes."
The words hit Norman like a punch.
An inside job. Of course. That's why the kidnappers were so confident. That's why they'd offered forty-eight hours — they had someone inside Oscorp feeding them everything. Norman's calls, his movements, his response. Every countermove would be reported before he could execute it.
"We should talk in person," Norman said. "I don't trust this line."
"I'm standing outside your building right now."
Nine minutes later, a second Mercedes pulled up to the Oscorp Tower entrance. Norman apparently had a fleet of them — though after today, Kade suspected every vehicle and driver in the company would be replaced.
Norman Osborn stepped out. He looked ten years older than the man Kade had met at the convention that morning. His face was gray. His jaw was clenched so tight the tendons in his neck stood out like cables.
Kade started toward him and was immediately intercepted by three bodyguards who hadn't been part of the original detail. Given that the last bodyguard on this assignment had been shot in the head twenty minutes ago, their hostility was understandable.
Norman looked past them. Saw Kade. And froze.
Recognition. The man from the park bench.
"Let him through," Norman ordered. "He's my guest."
The bodyguards parted. Kade walked up and extended his hand.
"Didn't expect to see you again so soon."
"Neither did I." Norman shook Kade's hand firmly. "Properly this time — Norman Osborn."
"Kade Lawson. Stark Industries, technical consulting."
The handshake lingered. Norman leaned in close, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Is Harry okay?"
Kade checked Violet's feed. "Safe for now. They've taken him to Hell's Kitchen."
Norman's expression didn't soften. If anything, the mention of Hell's Kitchen made it worse. He gestured toward the lobby. "Let's go upstairs."
"Of course." Kade reached into his jacket. "Before we do — your son was trying to give you this. It fell during the chaos."
He held out a green mask. Crudely made — construction paper, poster paint, uneven eye holes. A monster face, designed by a six-year-old's hands with a six-year-old's love.
Harry's gift. The one he'd been carrying when the bullet hit.
Norman took it. His fingers closed around the cheap paper like it was made of glass. For a long moment, the CEO of a billion-dollar corporation stood in front of his own building, staring at a child's art project, and said nothing.
Kade felt something shift in his chest. The raw, undisguised pain on Norman's face was the kind of thing that cut through cynicism. A father looking at the last thing his son had touched before being taken from him.
Then Violet's voice rang through Kade's mind, dripping with theatrical gravity:
"Put it on, Osborn. It is your DESTINY!"
The moment shattered like a window hit by a baseball.
Kade's eye twitched. Every ounce of genuine emotion evaporated in an instant, replaced by the overwhelming urge to throw his watch into the nearest storm drain.
I am going to disassemble that robot.
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