The Osborn Enterprises press room was packed to capacity.
Camera flashes strobed across the stage like lightning, and the murmur of dozens of conversations created a constant background hum. Harry stood at the podium in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, looking every inch the young corporate titan—calm, composed, and utterly in control.
This was the price of victory: the endless obligation to explain yourself to people who hadn't been there.
"Mr. Osborn, there are rumors that you killed a foreign national in Hell's Kitchen several days ago. How do you respond to these allegations?"
Harry had been expecting this question. In fact, he'd arranged for it to be asked—better to control the narrative than let some hostile reporter frame it their own way.
"I'd like to correct your phrasing," Harry said smoothly. "The individual in question wasn't a 'foreign national.' He was a professional assassin, hired to intimidate or kill me. My actions were taken in self-defense, as any reasonable person would understand. My legal team is already handling the matter, and I'm confident the investigation will confirm exactly what I've said."
A collective gasp rippled through the audience at the word "assassin."
"I—I apologize for my phrasing," the reporter said quickly, sitting down with a flustered expression.
"No apology necessary." Harry smiled graciously and scanned the crowd. His eyes settled on a young man near the back—eager expression, cheap suit, notebook clutched like a lifeline. Perfect.
"You there. What's your question?"
The young man stood, practically vibrating with nervous energy. "Mr. Osborn, how exactly did you subdue a professional killer? There are rumors your performance was... well, almost superhuman. Some people are even speculating that you've undergone enhancement similar to Captain America. Is there any truth to that?"
Another planted question, but Harry made a show of looking impressed.
"What's your name, reporter?"
The young man blinked, clearly not expecting the question. Then realization dawned—Harry was giving him a moment in the spotlight, a chance to be remembered. His eyes widened with gratitude.
"Eddie Brock, sir. I'm still in college, actually. Working while I study."
"Self-reliant and ambitious? Then we're colleagues in a sense." Harry grinned, and the audience chuckled warmly. Several reporters cast approving looks at Eddie—the kid had just gotten his name in front of every major outlet in the city.
Remember this moment, Eddie, Harry thought. Favors given are favors owed.
"But to answer your question—thank you for asking it, by the way—this actually involves one of our company's newest products."
Harry gestured to the side of the stage, where Victoria Hurley stepped forward. She was wearing a sleek black bodysuit that outlined something mechanical beneath the fabric—a lightweight framework of titanium and carbon fiber that traced her limbs like an exoskeleton.
"This is the EXO-Guardian," Harry announced. "A new exoskeleton designed specifically for law enforcement applications. It enhances the user's strength and stamina significantly, and incorporates integrated ballistic armor capable of stopping most conventional firearms."
The screens behind him flickered to life, showing footage of Hurley in the exoskeleton lifting a barbell loaded with three hundred kilograms. She made it look effortless—curling the weight like it was made of foam, then setting it down without so much as a heavy breath.
More footage followed: combat simulations, durability tests, a demonstration of the suit's enhanced mobility. The audience watched in stunned silence.
"As many of you know," Harry continued, his tone shifting to something more somber, "Osborn Enterprises was attacked several weeks ago. Industrial exoskeletons were stolen—equipment designed for mining and construction. This theft has understandably caused concern among the public."
He set down the microphone and bowed deeply, a gesture of genuine contrition that he'd practiced in front of a mirror until it looked completely natural.
"For that concern, I am deeply sorry."
"Mr. Osborn, we all know that wasn't your fault," Eddie called out. "The criminals are to blame, not you."
Harry straightened, allowing a grateful smile to cross his face. "Thank you, Eddie. But the mission of Osborn Enterprises has always been to use technology to improve lives and build a better future. When our technology is misused, we bear some responsibility for that—which is why I've made a decision."
He paused for effect.
"The EXO-Guardian will be sold to the NYPD at cost. No profit margin. No markup. Just the manufacturing expense, so that our police officers can be equipped to handle threats that would otherwise require military intervention."
The room erupted in applause.
Harry raised a hand, and the noise subsided. "In fact, we've already established a deep partnership with the NYPD over the past several months. Together, we're working to clean up areas of the city that have been neglected for too long—areas with high crime rates, poor infrastructure, and limited opportunity."
He let the pause stretch.
"Areas like Hell's Kitchen."
The applause returned, louder this time.
"I know some people have argued that publicly using that name is a form of discrimination. That we should call it 'Clinton' or some other sanitized term to avoid offending anyone." Harry shook his head slowly. "But is true discrimination really about a name?"
His voice hardened, taking on an edge of genuine passion.
"Drug proliferation. Rampant crime. Unemployment. Children who learn to use—or sell—drugs before they're old enough for middle school. That's discrimination. Ignoring those problems while arguing about what to call the neighborhood? That's not sensitivity. That's cowardice."
The room was silent now, hanging on every word.
"The Osborn Group is launching a comprehensive renovation initiative. We're going to fix the problems—create jobs, build schools, establish programs that give people a real chance at a better life. And once we've done that?" He smiled. "Then you can call it whatever you want."
He leaned into the microphone.
"You know what to do. Vote for Norman Osborn."
The press conference ended to thunderous applause.
One Week Later — Osborn Penthouse
"You have more potential as a politician than I do."
Norman raised his glass, watching the recorded footage of Harry's press conference play on the wall-mounted screen. The applause at the end still sent a small thrill through him—pride in his son, mixed with something like awe.
Harry clinked his glass against his father's. "Please. That was just a script Victoria wrote beforehand. If I had a choice, I'd have her give the speech instead."
"She doesn't have your presence." Norman settled back into his chair. "Speaking of Victoria..."
He made a suggestive gesture with his eyebrows.
Harry rolled his eyes. "I'm seventeen, Dad. And there are... things I need to figure out first. Ask me again after you're President."
"So there is something to ask about."
"Focus on the election."
Norman chuckled, letting the subject drop. "Fine, fine. But speaking of—your birthday is coming up. Anything you want?"
Harry didn't hesitate. "New York City's power grid. That's it."
"Ambitious as always." Norman nodded approvingly. "The mayor agreed to delay the project timeline, but there's a condition—the new grid has to use Dr. Octavius's fusion technology. I accepted."
Harry smiled. That had been the plan all along. Nuclear fusion powering New York's infrastructure would be a technological revolution, and having it under Osborn control meant the company's influence would extend into every home and business in the city.
The only remaining problem was Kingpin.
Fisk was desperate now, cornered by Harry's legal assault and the steady erosion of his criminal network. Desperate men did dangerous things—the past few weeks had seen a surge of violence in Hell's Kitchen as Fisk tried to reassert control through bloodshed.
But that was fine. Let him thrash. The trap was already closing.
Ring ring.
Norman glanced at his phone, and his expression shifted. "General Ross."
Harry straightened slightly. Ross calling Norman directly was unusual—the general preferred to work through official military channels.
"General, how are you?" Norman put the phone on speaker.
"Not great, Norman." Ross's voice was gruff, strained. "Stark's been missing too long. Congress is getting nervous. They're worried his weapons technology might fall into enemy hands."
Harry frowned slightly. Tony Stark's disappearance in Afghanistan should have been resolved by now—in the timeline he remembered, Stark had built his first Iron Man suit and escaped within a few months. But this world wasn't quite the same as the movies he'd watched. The presence of Osborn exoskeletons, the changes to the political landscape, the different timing of events...
Butterfly effect, Harry realized. I've already changed things.
"Is Harry with you?" Ross asked suddenly.
Norman glanced at his son. "Yes, he's here. One moment."
Harry leaned toward the phone. "General Ross. What can I do for you?"
"I'll be direct, son." Ross's tone was blunt, almost aggressive. "That rumor about you—human enhancement technology. Is it true?"
Harry had expected this. Ross had spent decades chasing the dream of recreating Captain America, and his obsession had produced disasters like the Hulk. The general would never stop hunting for enhancement technology.
"No, General," Harry said smoothly. "If we had obtained controllable enhancement technology, we would have approached you immediately for partnership."
The emphasis on "controllable" was deliberate. Norman smiled at the wordplay—it implied that uncontrollable technology might exist, which Ross would interpret as a reference to the abandoned Green Goblin project.
Let him think that. It kept attention away from the Spartan Program.
Silence on the other end of the line. Ross was processing, calculating.
"However," Harry continued, sensing an opportunity, "there is another project that might interest you. Dr. Curt Connors—one of our lead researchers—is working on advanced neural prosthetics. The technology has significant military applications, particularly for wounded veterans."
"Prosthetics?" Ross's voice shifted, skepticism giving way to interest.
"More than prosthetics. We're talking about full neural integration—artificial limbs that respond to thought, sensory feedback, enhanced durability. Imagine soldiers who lose limbs in combat being returned to full combat readiness within months instead of being medically discharged."
The line was quiet for a long moment.
"I'm listening," Ross said finally.
Harry smiled. This was the opening he needed. General Ross commanded enormous influence within the military establishment—his support could provide political cover, government contracts, and the kind of institutional backing that would make Kingpin's criminal empire look like a child's lemonade stand.
"I'd be happy to arrange a demonstration at your convenience, General. Perhaps we could discuss other areas of potential cooperation as well."
"I'll have my people contact yours." Ross's tone had warmed considerably. "And Harry?"
"Yes, General?"
"Good work with that assassin. The footage made its way to some people in Washington. They were impressed."
The line went dead.
Harry set down his phone and exchanged a look with his father.
"Military, political, and business," Norman said slowly. "You're building a three-legged stool."
"A stool can't tip over if all the legs are strong enough." Harry raised his glass. "Kingpin has money and criminals. We have the military, the government, and the biggest technology company in America."
"He can't win."
"He never could." Harry took a sip of his drink. "He just doesn't know it yet."
Outside the penthouse windows, New York City glittered in the evening darkness—millions of lights, millions of lives, all of them increasingly under the influence of Osborn Enterprises.
And this was only the beginning.