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Pierre lay in bed and stared at the ceiling.
The sheets smelled like sunshine — actual sunshine, not the chemical warmth of a hospital dryer. The pillows were soft. The room was private, spacious, and furnished more like a boutique hotel than a medical ward. If not for the monitoring equipment beside the bed, he could have been on vacation.
This was the reward for saving Harry Osborn's life. And it was only the beginning.
Pierre's injuries were minor. The suppressed pistol hadn't packed enough punch to do serious damage through body armor — two cracked ribs, some bruising. A small price for what was coming.
When those people had first approached him with the offer, he hadn't believed it. A fortune for playing hero? Too good to be true. But here he was — luxury room, gourmet meals, gratitude from one of the richest men in New York.
The only thing that bothered him was the bodyguard.
The deal had been straightforward: when the shooting starts, Pierre dives in front of Harry, takes a few rounds to the vest, directs the nanny into the armored car. He'd asked about the kid's protection detail — the professional bodyguard who'd be standing right there. They'd told him not to worry about it. "We'll handle it," they'd said.
Apparently "handling it" meant a bullet through the man's temple.
Pierre had expected the bodyguard to be distracted, maybe lured away. Not executed. That changed things. The people who'd hired him weren't running a scare job — they were running something much bigger, and Pierre was now tied to a killing he'd never agreed to.
The unease sat in his stomach like a stone. But judging by his current accommodations, nobody suspected a thing.
Evening came. Warm lighting. A dinner that would have cost two hundred dollars at a Manhattan restaurant. Pierre was reaching for the remote to catch up on his favorite show when the door opened.
No knock.
Pierre's first reaction was annoyance. Five-star treatment and they can't even knock? He'd barely spent a day in luxury and was already thinking like a man who deserved it.
Then he saw who walked in.
"Mr. Osborn!" Pierre scrambled upright, wincing dramatically as the movement pulled at his ribs. The pain was real but nowhere near as bad as he made it look. A little suffering for the camera never hurt — maybe Osborn would add a bonus.
His performance died the moment he noticed the second person.
A young man. Casual clothes. Pierre didn't recognize the face immediately, but the outfit clicked — the T-shirt, the jeans, the build. This was the guy he'd turned away at the entrance. The one who'd been standing there when the shooting started.
The stone in Pierre's stomach turned to ice.
"Pierre," Norman said, and his voice had no warmth in it at all. "Stay in bed. I have some questions."
Pierre's survival instincts kicked in. "Of course, Mr. Osborn. Though the doctor said I might have a concussion from the fall — my memory of today's events might be a little foggy."
Kade almost laughed out loud. The man was already building his escape route.
No point dancing around it. Kade stepped forward.
"You'll remember this just fine, because I'm not asking about today. About two months ago, two hundred thousand dollars appeared in your accounts — spread across multiple deposits, different source accounts. I'd like to hear your explanation."
"Two hundred thousand? I don't know what you're talking about." Pierre's voice went up half an octave.
"Do I need to print the transaction records and throw them in your face? I'm asking you directly because I'd prefer you save us both some time and just talk. But if you think you can stonewall this — if you think denial is going to work — then I'll have to get creative."
Violet had traced the funds in minutes. The deposits were staggered and routed through different accounts, but every trail led back to the same source: an entity called United Global Investments. Kade hadn't had time to fully map the company's structure, but preliminary data suggested it was a major conglomerate — nearly on par with Stark Industries — with significant business ties to Hell's Kitchen.
"No — you can't do this!" Pierre turned to Norman, desperation cracking through his composure. "Mr. Osborn, don't listen to this guy. I saved your son!"
"If they intended to kill Harry from the start," Norman said, his voice like a blade, "then why did they kidnap him afterward?" He took a step closer. "They used you to lure the bodyguard out of the car. The shooter's position was within your regular patrol route — you knew exactly where he'd be because you led the bodyguard right to him. You didn't save anyone. You delivered my son to the people who took him."
The color drained from Pierre's face.
He'd been played. The deal was supposed to be a staged scare — rattle Osborn, shake the stock price, everyone profits. He was the fall guy who gets to feel like a hero. But they'd killed the bodyguard. They'd taken the boy. The operation Pierre thought he was part of had never existed — it was a kidnapping from the start, and he'd been the one who put Harry into the getaway car.
But even now, he held the line. "No, Mr. Osborn. I swear I don't know anything. I didn't do anything."
Norman's fist clenched. He was seconds from hitting a bedridden man.
Kade put a hand on Norman's shoulder. "Norman. Gathering evidence is physical work. Let me handle it — I'm a professional."
He walked to the bedside. Pierre was bigger than Kade — taller, heavier. But with two cracked ribs and nowhere to run, size didn't matter. Kade caught his arm, locked the wrist, and twisted it behind his back in a single fluid motion — a restraint technique drilled into him across thousands of repetitions.
Pierre's face hit the pillow. His muffled screaming was swallowed by the fabric.
Kade snapped a metal bracelet onto Pierre's wrist and stepped back.
"The device on your wrist is going to contract," Kade said calmly. "Slowly. Steadily. You have about three minutes to start talking. After that, it'll crush your wrist. If you wait too long, it'll take the hand off entirely."
He released Pierre.
The big man gasped, sucking air — and then felt it. The bracelet was tightening. Not fast. Not dramatically. Just a constant, mechanical pressure that increased by a fraction every second. Within moments, it had bitten deep enough to leave a welt.
Pierre thrashed. Slammed his arm against the bed frame. Clawed at the metal with his free hand. The bracelet didn't care. It tightened with the patience of a machine that had nowhere else to be.
Pierre held out longer than Kade expected — nearly two minutes of escalating agony before the screaming started in earnest. When he lunged for the nurse-call button on the wall, Norman delivered the killing blow.
"Pierre. This is an Oscorp hospital."
Pierre's hand froze in midair.
Oscorp hospital. Oscorp staff. Oscorp security. No one was coming to help him — not here, not now, not ever.
"Take it off," Pierre gasped. "Take it off and I'll tell you everything. The money came from Russians. They told me it was just a scare job .