"Renowned entrepreneur Norman Osborn announced today that he will run in this year's congressional elections. We go now to our reporter on the scene..."
The television in Matt Murdock's cramped apartment showed Norman standing at a podium, surrounded by cameras and microphones. Harry watched with quiet satisfaction as his father handled the press with the ease of a man who'd spent decades commanding boardrooms.
"Mr. Osborn, what are your thoughts on the war in Afghanistan? We know Osborn Enterprises has sold military equipment to the Pentagon—does this mean you support the war?"
Norman paused, letting the question settle before responding. "The Osborn Group is a business. We don't pass judgment on matters of war and peace—that's for elected officials and the American people to decide." His voice was measured, sincere. "As for the equipment we've developed, our goal has always been simple: protect the men and women on the front lines. Sons and daughters. Parents and partners. Our heroic soldiers deserve to come home safely. That's why we build what we build."
A murmur ran through the press corps. Norman had threaded the needle perfectly—patriotic without being hawkish, supportive without being political.
"Regarding my entry into politics," Norman continued, "I won't pretend to be something I'm not. I'm a practical businessman, not a politician. I don't give pretty speeches. But I can tell you something concrete: the Osborn Group has just signed a major urban renewal contract with New York City."
He gestured to a display behind him showing architectural renderings—new buildings, green spaces, community centers.
"We will build schools in underserved neighborhoods across the city. Hell's Kitchen. Harlem. The South Bronx. We'll create jobs, improve infrastructure, and give these communities the investment they deserve. These aren't just words—the contracts are signed. Construction begins next month."
Harry clicked off the television and turned to face Matt Murdock.
"What do you think? I told you—the Osborn Group isn't the heartless corporation you might have assumed."
Matt sat across from him, dark glasses hiding sightless eyes that somehow saw more than most people's. He hadn't changed out of his day clothes, but Harry knew that somewhere in this apartment, a dark red costume was hidden away.
"Impressive presentation," Matt said neutrally. "But what does any of this have to do with me?"
"Everything." Harry leaned back in his chair. "Consider this my bargaining chip with the man in black. Whether he agrees to work with me or not, these plans will move forward regardless. But having his cooperation would make things... smoother."
Matt was silent for a long moment. Harry knew what he was doing—listening to Harry's heartbeat, parsing his words for lies. It was an unsettling ability, but Harry had prepared for it by speaking only truths.
"The man in black," Matt said carefully. "Do you know who he is?"
Harry smiled. "I know he helped me when no one else would. I know he fights for this neighborhood. And I know he could use an ally who operates in the daylight while he works in the shadows."
"You're lying about something."
"Am I?" Harry's smile didn't waver. "I know who he is, Mr. Murdock. Just as I know who you are. So let's skip the part where we pretend otherwise."
Matt's jaw tightened. For a moment, Harry thought the blind man might actually attack him—Daredevil's reputation for violence was well-earned. But then Matt sighed, the tension draining from his shoulders.
"He agreed," Matt said quietly. "Provisionally. He wants to see results before committing to anything permanent."
"Excellent." Harry reached into his bag and produced a stack of legal documents. "Now let's discuss our other arrangement, Attorney Murdock."
"I'm not an attorney yet. I haven't passed the bar."
"A temporary condition." Harry placed the contracts on the table between them. "You will pass. And when you do, you'll need clients. The Osborn Group needs lawyers. It seems like a natural fit."
Matt's brow furrowed. "The Osborn Group has access to every major law firm in New York. Why would you want a blind man who hasn't even been admitted to the bar?"
"Because I need a lawyer I can trust." Harry uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. "Do you know what happens to corporate lawyers, Mr. Murdock? They get bribed. They get threatened. They get compromised. And then they become liabilities instead of assets."
He let that sink in before continuing.
"You can't be bribed—you don't care about money. You can't be threatened—you're the most dangerous man in Hell's Kitchen. And you can't be compromised, because you have no secrets from me and I have none from you." Harry spread his hands. "I trust you. And you can trust me, because I don't have a mountain of criminal records waiting for someone to investigate."
Matt tilted his head, listening. Evaluating.
"You're not lying," he said finally, sounding almost surprised.
"I try to avoid it when possible. Lies are inefficient."
After another long moment, Matt reached for the contracts. His fingers traced the raised print—Harry had prepared Braille versions, naturally—and he nodded slowly.
"Until I pass the bar, I can't officially represent you."
"Understood. Consider this a retainer. Use it to establish your firm, cover your expenses, prepare for the exam. Once you're licensed, we'll formalize the arrangement."
They shook hands. Matt's grip was stronger than it looked—the hands of a fighter, not a scholar.
"Mr. Osborn, it's getting late. Let me walk you to your car."
Harry glanced out the window. The streets of Hell's Kitchen were dark, the streetlights casting pools of yellow light that didn't quite reach the shadows between buildings. Considering Kingpin was still watching him, having Daredevil's alter ego as an escort seemed prudent.
"I'd appreciate that."
The limousine moved slowly through Hell's Kitchen's narrow streets. Victoria Hurley sat beside Harry, her tablet forgotten in her lap, clearly unsettled by the neighborhood's atmosphere. Harry understood the feeling—the tension in the air was almost physical, a weight pressing down on everyone who entered these streets.
Matt sat across from them, his face unreadable behind those dark glasses.
"You seem uncomfortable," Matt observed.
"Just alert." Harry watched the shadows between buildings pass by. "Kingpin has eyes everywhere. I'd rather not give him an easy target."
"Wise."
The car turned a corner—
BANG.
The gunshot shattered the night's silence. The driver's hands jerked on the wheel, nearly sending them into a panicked pedestrian who'd stumbled into the street.
"Jesus Christ!" Hurley grabbed Harry's arm, her professional composure cracking.
"It wasn't aimed at us." Matt's voice remained calm, almost detached. "You'll have to get used to it. In Hell's Kitchen, this happens every night."
"I know that," Harry snapped, his heart still racing. "But can you not lecture me about it? I'm not the reason this neighborhood is a warzone."
Matt's lips twitched—almost a smile. "Fair enough."
Then his head tilted, that particular angle Harry had learned to recognize. He was listening to something beyond normal human hearing.
"The victim is alive. Barely." Matt's hand was already on the door handle. "Stop the car."
The driver looked at Harry uncertainly. Harry sighed and nodded.
"Pull over. Call the police." He was already reaching for the door himself. "Let's see what happened."
A crowd had gathered around a figure lying on the sidewalk. Matt disappeared into an alley—presumably to change—while Harry pushed through the onlookers.
"Everyone back! Give him space!" Harry's commanding voice cut through the murmurs. The crowd parted, and he got his first clear look at the victim.
His blood turned to ice.
Uncle Ben.
The older man lay on the concrete, one hand pressed against his stomach where dark blood was spreading through his flannel shirt. His face was pale, his breathing shallow, his eyes flickering between consciousness and darkness.
Harry's mind raced. Ben Parker. Peter's uncle. The man whose death, in every timeline Harry knew about, had been the catalyst that created Spider-Man. "With great power comes great responsibility"—those dying words had shaped a hero.
If he saved Ben Parker now... would there still be a Spider-Man?
For one terrible moment, Harry hesitated.
Let him die, a cold voice whispered in his mind. Spider-Man needs this tragedy. The world needs Spider-Man. One old man's life against millions that will be saved—the math is simple.
But even as the thought formed, Harry felt sick. Was this who he was now? Someone who watched innocent people die because it was "convenient" for the timeline? Someone who treated human lives as plot points to be managed?
No.
He hadn't transmigrated into this world to be a puppet of fate. He'd come here to change things. To make them better. And if that meant rewriting the story—if that meant creating a Spider-Man who wasn't born from tragedy—then so be it.
"Hurley!" Harry's voice cracked like a whip. "Call the biotech division. I need a trauma team here now. Tell them to bring O-negative blood and a mobile surgical unit."
"Sir—"
"Now, Victoria."
She was already dialing.
Harry knelt beside Ben, pressing his own hands against the wound to slow the bleeding. The old man's eyes focused on him, confusion mixing with pain.
"Help... is coming," Harry said, keeping his voice steady. "Stay with me, Mr. Parker. You're going to be fine."
"My... nephew..." Ben's voice was barely a whisper. "Peter... tell him..."
"You'll tell him yourself. I promise."
Please let me be fast enough.
"Uncle Ben!"
Peter burst through the crowd, shoving people aside with strength he was barely remembering to control. His eyes were wild, his face streaked with tears.
"Peter—" Harry started, but the boy wasn't listening. He dropped to his knees beside his uncle, grabbing Ben's hand.
"Uncle Ben, I'm here, I'm here—"
"Peter..." Ben's eyes found his nephew's face, and something like peace settled over his features. Even now, dying on a Hell's Kitchen sidewalk, the man's first thought was for the boy he'd raised.
"I'm sorry," Peter sobbed. "I'm so sorry, I should have been here, I should have—"
"Peter." Ben's voice was weak but firm. "Listen to me."
The boy fell silent, tears streaming down his face.
"You have... a gift." Ben's hand trembled as he reached up to touch Peter's cheek. "I've seen it. I don't understand it, but I've seen it. And with great power... comes great responsibility."
"Uncle Ben—"
"Promise me, Peter. Promise me you'll use it... to help people."
"I promise." Peter's voice broke. "I promise, Uncle Ben. Just don't—please don't—"
The wail of sirens cut through the night. An Osborn Group emergency vehicle screeched to a halt, and a trauma team spilled out with practiced efficiency.
"Sir, we need to move him now."
Harry helped the paramedics load Ben onto a stretcher. Peter tried to follow, but someone—a police officer who'd finally arrived—held him back, asking questions about the shooter.
Harry saw the moment Peter's grief transformed into rage. The boy's eyes went hard, his jaw set with terrible purpose. He pulled away from the officer and disappeared into the crowd, moving toward the direction the shot had come from.
Going after the shooter, Harry realized. Alone.
Part of him wanted to follow, to help. But Ben Parker was bleeding out, and Harry had made a promise.
"Get him to our medical center," Harry ordered. "Priority one. Whatever resources you need, you have them."
Osborn Medical Center - Three Hours Later
"Harry, we have a problem."
Dr. Connors met him outside the intensive care unit, his face grave. Even with one arm, the man moved with the confidence of a surgeon who'd saved countless lives—but right now, that confidence was strained.
"He's lost too much blood. We've stabilized him temporarily, but we need a transfusion." Connors shook his head. "His blood type is rare. We don't have a match in our reserves, and the city blood banks are running low."
"What about—"
BANG.
The ICU doors burst open, and Peter Parker stumbled through. The boy looked like he'd been through a war—clothes torn, face bruised, covered in dust and what might have been blood that wasn't his own.
"Uncle Ben!" Peter's voice cracked. "Where is he? Is he—"
"He's alive," Harry said quickly, catching Peter's shoulders before he could rush past. "He's alive, Peter. But he needs help."
"What kind of help? What can I do?"
Harry looked at Dr. Connors. Then back at Peter.
He'd wanted Spider-Man's blood. He'd spent weeks trying to figure out how to get it without raising suspicion, without forcing a confrontation, without revealing what he knew.
And now fate had handed him the opportunity on a silver platter.
"Peter, your uncle needs a blood transfusion. We don't have a compatible donor." Harry kept his voice calm, compassionate. "Would you be willing to do a blood type match? If you're compatible, you could save his life."
"My blood?" Peter blinked, momentarily thrown. Some of the tension drained from his shoulders as he processed—this was something concrete, something he could do. "Yes. Of course. Whatever he needs."
"Dr. Connors, take Peter to the lab. Run the full panel."
"Right away." Connors guided the boy down the hall, already explaining the procedure.
Harry watched them go, a strange mix of emotions churning in his chest. He'd gotten what he wanted. Spider-Man's blood, freely given, no coercion required. The third enhancement technology for his system quest.
But somehow, the victory felt hollow.
Because it shouldn't have happened this way, he realized. Ben Parker should be healthy and safe in Queens, watching television with his wife. Not fighting for his life in a hospital bed because I was too slow.
Harry squared his shoulders and pushed through the ICU doors.
If he couldn't prevent the tragedy, he could at least make sure it didn't end in death.
Six Hours Later
"Stable." Dr. Connors pulled off his surgical gloves, exhaustion etched into every line of his face. "The transfusion worked. He's going to need weeks of recovery, but... he's going to make it."
Harry slumped against the wall, relief washing over him. "Thank you, Doctor."
"Thank Peter. The boy's blood was a perfect match—better than perfect, actually. Some of the markers were..." Connors frowned, trailing off. "Unusual. I'd like to run some additional tests, if he's willing."
"I'll ask him." Harry made a mental note to steer Connors away from that line of inquiry. The last thing they needed was the man discovering that Peter's blood contained spider-enhanced DNA. "Where is he now?"
"Waiting room. He refused to leave until he knew his uncle was safe."
Harry found Peter slumped in a plastic chair, half-asleep but fighting to stay awake. The boy looked up as Harry approached, hope and fear warring in his expression.
"He's going to live, Peter. Your blood saved him."
Peter's face crumpled. The tears he'd been holding back finally broke free—not grief this time, but relief so profound it was almost painful to witness.
"Thank you," Peter managed. "Mr. Osborn, thank you. I don't know how I can ever—"
"You don't owe me anything." Harry sat down beside him. "You saved his life. I just provided the facilities."
They sat in silence for a while. Outside the window, dawn was breaking over Manhattan, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold.
"The man who shot him," Peter said quietly. "I found him."
Harry waited.
"I wanted to kill him." Peter's voice was barely a whisper. "I had him. I could have done it. But then I thought about what Uncle Ben said. About responsibility. About what it means to have power." He looked at his hands. "So I left him for the police."
Harry studied the boy beside him—this teenager who'd been given the abilities of a superhero and, in his darkest moment, had chosen mercy over vengeance.
"That took strength, Peter. More strength than most people have."
"It didn't feel like strength. It felt like letting him win."
"No." Harry shook his head. "Letting him win would be becoming like him. You're better than that."
Peter was quiet for a long time. Then, slowly, he nodded.
"Uncle Ben always said I could be something special. I never really believed him." He looked at Harry, something new in his eyes—determination, maybe, or resolve. "But maybe he was right."
Harry smiled.
Yes, he thought. He was.
In his pocket, his phone buzzed with a notification. He glanced at it discreetly.
[QUEST: Acquire at least three different human enhancement technologies][Progress: 3/3][QUEST COMPLETE][Reward unlocked: Spartan Program Phase II Bio-Modification Technology]
The third enhancement technology. Spider-Man's blood.
Harry had everything he needed now.
And Uncle Ben was going to live.
All in all, not a bad night's work.