"Unbelievable. It actually worked."
Norman stared at the diagnostic readouts, his face cycling through disbelief, wonder, and something that might have been fear. The numbers didn't lie—bone density, muscle fiber analysis, nerve conduction velocity, cellular regeneration rates—all of them were off the charts, beyond anything medical science said was possible.
His son had become something more than human.
"Don't say it like that, Dad." Harry pulled on his shirt, buttoning it with fingers that moved faster and more precisely than they had any right to. "You make it sound like you didn't have faith in me."
"It's not that, it's just..." Norman set down the tablet, struggling to find words. "Do you understand what you've done? The most successful human enhancement in history was Captain America, and that was eighty years ago. Since then, every attempt to replicate it has failed. The super soldier program. The Hulk disaster. Our own—" He caught himself. "Our own mistakes."
"And now you've succeeded where everyone else failed."
Harry finished dressing and turned to face his father. "I had advantages they didn't. Better technology. Better preparation. And some help they couldn't have imagined."
The system, he didn't say. Norman knew about it in vague terms—knew that Harry had access to knowledge and technology that shouldn't exist—but the full truth would have been impossible to explain.
"I'm proud of you, son." Norman crossed the distance between them and pulled Harry into a tight embrace. "Your mother would have been proud too."
"I know." Harry returned the hug, feeling the difference in their strength now. He had to be careful—too much pressure, and he could crack his father's ribs. "I told you. You just have to have faith."
They separated, and Norman's expression shifted to something more businesslike. "So. What's the plan? This technology is revolutionary. World-changing. How do you intend to handle it?"
Harry had already thought this through.
"Going public is impossible," he said flatly. "The Spartan Program isn't ready for mass production. Even with perfect technology, the success rate would be uncertain. My own enhancement only worked because of..." He paused, choosing his words. "Unique circumstances. Without those circumstances, the procedure has maybe a ten percent survival rate. Maybe less."
Norman's face paled slightly at that, but he nodded. "So it stays secret."
"For now. But that doesn't mean we can't benefit from it." Harry walked to the window, looking out at the Manhattan skyline. "I'll strip down the individual components—nerve enhancement, bone reinforcement, glandular optimization—and separate them from the full program. Each piece becomes its own research project at Osborn Enterprises. We patent what we can, industrialize what's practical, and let the pieces strengthen the company."
"And the company strengthens your political base."
"Which strengthens your campaign." Harry turned back to face his father. "Which eventually puts you in the Governor's mansion. Then the White House."
Norman was quiet for a moment, processing the scope of what his son was proposing. Not just a company. Not just a political career. An empire, built piece by piece, with Harry as the architect and Norman as the public face.
"You've thought this through," Norman said finally.
"I've had time."
Ring ring.
Harry's phone interrupted the moment. He glanced at the screen—Victoria Hurley.
"Speaking of work," he murmured, and answered. "Yes?"
"Harry, where are you?" Hurley's voice carried a mix of professionalism and something warmer underneath. "I've been trying to reach you for hours."
Norman rolled his eyes as Harry wandered toward the window with a grin.
"Miss me, sweetheart?"
"You sound suspiciously happy. You're not on a date with some girl, are you?" The playful jealousy in her voice was almost certainly practiced, but it still made Harry smile. Their relationship was complicated—professional with undertones of something more—but he enjoyed the banter.
"Come on, I'm still a minor. Watch how you talk to me."
"Hmph. A battle-hardened minor." He could practically hear her eye roll through the phone. "Anyway, Mr. Murdock called. He wants to meet with you. Says he's made progress."
Harry's smile sharpened. Daredevil had found something.
"Tell him I'll be there tonight."
Hell's Kitchen — Nelson & Murdock, Attorneys at Law
The building was exactly as depressing as Harry had expected.
A converted warehouse in one of Hell's Kitchen's less gentrified corners, the structure had seen better decades. Water stains traced abstract patterns down the brick facade. The windows were grimy. A flickering neon sign above the entrance read "NELSON & MURDOCK" in letters that had probably been red once.
"I see you didn't use my money to renovate," Harry observed as he approached.
The door swung open before he could knock, revealing a slightly overweight young man in an ill-fitting suit. Franklin "Foggy" Nelson—Matt's partner and best friend since law school—had the look of someone perpetually caught between optimism and resignation.
"Believe me, I suggested we find a better place." Foggy gestured Harry inside with an apologetic shrug. "But you know how Matt is."
"I won't use money from a client whose innocence I haven't confirmed," Matt's voice came from deeper in the office. "You know that, Foggy."
Harry stepped through the doorway and took in the space. "Damp" was generous—"swamp-adjacent" was more accurate. The layout made no sense, with filing cabinets blocking natural pathways and a desk crammed into what had clearly been designed as a closet.
"Counselor, I was under the impression you only take cases for clients you've already confirmed are innocent." Harry settled into a creaky chair across from Matt's desk. "Also, could you maybe not question my character to my face? It's a little hurtful."
Matt's lips twitched—almost a smile. "No outsiders here. I'll be direct. Why do you believe Wilson Fisk is this 'Kingpin' figure you described?"
"Osborn Enterprises is the premier technology company in America," Harry said simply. "We have resources. Contacts. Ways of learning things that most people can't access."
Matt was silent. Harry could tell the answer didn't satisfy him—the blind lawyer had an uncanny ability to sense evasion—but something else seemed to be occupying his attention. Matt's head tilted slightly, that particular angle Harry had learned to recognize.
He's listening to me, Harry realized. Really listening. And he's noticed that something's different.
The Spartan enhancement had changed Harry's physiology in ways that went beyond the obvious. His heartbeat was stronger, more regular. His breathing was deeper. Even the way he moved had shifted—smoother, more controlled.
To someone like Matt Murdock, whose senses could detect a lie from across a room, Harry must have seemed like an entirely different person.
"Fine," Matt said finally. "Following your lead, I did find some things."
He nodded to Foggy, who produced a thick folder of documents and spread them across the desk.
"Wilson Fisk established several major enterprises over the past decade, including Union Allied Construction. He's built a reputation as a millionaire philanthropist—generous donations, community programs, the works." Matt tapped the documents. "But no one can explain where his initial capital came from. There's no family money. No early investors. No legitimate source for the fortune he apparently materialized out of thin air."
"And when you dig deeper?" Harry prompted.
"Shadows." Matt's jaw tightened. "Connections to organized crime going back years. Murders that benefited his business interests. Witnesses who disappeared before they could testify. Nothing concrete, nothing that would hold up in court, but the pattern is unmistakable."
He leaned forward. "You weren't lying, Mr. Osborn. This man has built a criminal empire, and he's hidden it behind a wall of legitimate business and charitable work."
Harry flipped through the documents, his enhanced mind processing information faster than his old self could have managed. Financial records. Property transfers. Corporate structures. It was impressive work for a month of investigation.
But it wasn't enough.
"Legally speaking, this is circumstantial at best," Harry said, setting down the folder. "Most of it is inference and conjecture. A good defense attorney would tear it apart."
"We know." Foggy's voice carried frustration. "We're lawyers, not private investigators. We can analyze what we find, but finding it in the first place..."
"You don't have an entry point," Harry finished. "I expected as much."
Kingpin hadn't survived this long by being careless. When he'd gone legitimate, he'd cleaned house thoroughly. Any evidence that could link him to his criminal past had been buried, destroyed, or attached to people who were now dead.
But Harry had prepared for that.
"Watch this." He picked up the remote and clicked on the small television in the corner of the office.
The news was already running the story.
"—Osborn Enterprises announced today that the municipal power grid project will welcome a new partner: Union Allied Construction. The joint venture represents a significant—"
Matt's head snapped toward the sound, his expression shifting to alarm. "You're working with him? After everything we just discussed?"
"Of course I am." Harry clicked off the TV. "How else was I supposed to create an entry point?"
He pulled out another folder—this one containing incorporation documents, contracts, and ownership records.
"A month ago, I agreed to share a portion of the power grid profits with Kingpin's organization. Call it protection money. As part of that arrangement, I've been acquiring shell companies—the ones Fisk uses for money laundering."
Matt's frown deepened, but Foggy leaned forward with sudden interest.
"You're creating a paper trail," Foggy said slowly. "By buying into his network, you're gaining access to financial records he'd never share with outsiders."
"Exactly." Harry spread the documents across the desk. "These are the companies you're now chief legal counsel for. Also CEO, CTO, and various other titles I made up to justify your access. As far as the world knows, you're investigating potential fraud on behalf of concerned investors."
Matt's expression was unreadable. "You want us to find evidence of money laundering from the inside."
"I want you to find anything that sticks. Financial crimes, fraud, tax evasion—I don't care what it is. Build a case. Make it airtight. Take him down legally, publicly, in a way that destroys not just Fisk but the entire infrastructure he's built."
"And if we can't do it legally?"
Harry met Matt's sightless gaze steadily. "Then we discuss other options. But let's try the legal route first—it's better for everyone's conscience."
Matt was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded.
"The company names?"
"Dumbass Holdings Group." Harry smiled slightly. "I thought it was fitting."
Foggy snorted. Matt's lips twitched again.
"We'll need time," Matt said. "Weeks, maybe months. This kind of forensic accounting isn't fast."
"Take what you need. Just make sure you finish before the power grid project goes live." Harry stood, straightening his jacket. "Otherwise, this is going to cost me a lot of money."
Union Allied Construction — Executive Offices
Across the city, Wilson Fisk stood at the window of his corner office, gazing out at Hell's Kitchen. His territory. His kingdom.
The city lights spread beneath him like a galaxy of possibilities, each one representing a life he could control, a business he could squeeze, a future he could shape. He had built this empire from nothing—from blood and sweat and the bones of everyone who had stood in his way.
And now a seventeen-year-old boy was trying to take it from him.
"Wesley." His voice was soft, almost gentle. It was always softest when he was most dangerous. "What did you find?"
James Wesley stood behind him, tablet in hand. Fisk's most trusted lieutenant—intelligent, loyal, and utterly ruthless when the situation required it.
"It's Harry Osborn, sir. He bribed several of our mid-level operators and used them to execute these transactions without your authorization." Wesley paused. "The traitors have been identified. They've been moved to a residential complex outside the city, under NYPD protection. It appears they've reached some kind of agreement with law enforcement."
Fisk said nothing. His reflection in the glass was a dark shape against the city lights, massive and still.
He had made a mistake. The power grid project had been too tempting—a chance to expand his legitimate holdings, to cement his position as a respectable businessman. And Harry Osborn had seemed like an easy mark. Young. Inexperienced. The kind of privileged rich kid who would fold at the first sign of pressure.
Instead, the boy had played him.
Protection money that was actually a Trojan horse. Cooperation that was actually infiltration. And now Fisk's own people were turning on him, trading information for immunity.
"What are our options?" Fisk asked.
"Limited, sir. The witnesses are under guard, and any direct action would draw attention we can't afford." Wesley hesitated. "However, removing Osborn himself might send a message. Discourage further interference."
"No." Fisk turned from the window. "Not yet. Killing the boy would invite investigation—real investigation, not the kind we can control. His father is running for Senate. The media would tear the city apart looking for answers."
"Then what do you suggest, sir?"
Fisk considered. The boy was clever—more clever than Fisk had given him credit for. But cleverness wasn't everything. Sometimes, a reminder of consequences was more effective than direct action.
"Send Bullseye," Fisk said finally. "Not to kill. To scare. Make the boy understand what he's risking by opposing me."
Wesley nodded. "And if he doesn't take the warning?"
Fisk's smile was thin and cold.
"Then we'll discuss more permanent solutions."
Somewhere in Hell's Kitchen, a man with a target carved into his forehead began preparing for a job.
He didn't know much about Harry Osborn. Rich kid. Tech company. Something about exoskeletons.
It didn't matter. Bullseye never missed.
And by the time this was over, Harry Osborn would learn what happened to people who made enemies of Wilson Fisk.
Or he would die.
Either way, Bullseye was getting paid.