Norman Osborn stared at his reflection in the dark glass. He wasn't looking at the magnificent landscape of the night city sprawling below, but at a face that seemed both familiar and foreign. It was pale and haggard, with a feverish glint in his green eyes and a barely perceptible nervous twitch at the corner of his lips. A few fresh scratches on his cheekbone and temple—ridiculous souvenirs from that night in the laboratory—looked like alien strokes on the portrait of a man accustomed to perfection.
He ran a hand over his face, feeling an unusual, ringing energy humming beneath his skin. The serum. The "OZ" Formula. His triumph. His curse?
"The Incident." That was what the press called it. "A tragic incident at the Oscorp laboratories." A gas leak, a short circuit, an explosion... Damned fools. They had no idea what had actually happened. There, in the sterile hell of his private laboratory, he had been reborn. He had touched the forbidden fruit of science and tasted a power that mere mortals could only dream of. The enhanced formula—the very one meant to save his company, his legacy, his... life? It worked. Oh, how it worked!
Power pulsated through every cell. His mind was sharp as a scalpel; thoughts raced at incredible speeds, weaving into complex patterns of brilliant insights and... something else. Something dark, wild, and primal. He felt like a god. Almost.
The price? Yes, there was a price. A few pathetic lives of the service staff whose names he hadn't even bothered to memorize. Dr. Stromm, that eternal sycophant who was in the wrong place at the wrong time... Otto Octavius, the brilliant scientist who, according to rumors, had also disappeared during the chaos... and Shaw. Faithful, silent Shaw. He had to be removed. A genius needs no witnesses. Especially witnesses to his weakness, to his dependence on these pathetic little people. Now he was free. Almost.
"Almost?" a voice whispered in his head. A light, mocking hiss, like the rustle of dry leaves or the creak of a spiderweb in an attic.
Norman flinched and looked around. The office was empty. Only shadows danced in the corners. It was happening again. A side effect? A hallucination? Or... something more? The voice that had appeared after that night. The voice that was part of his new, improved self.
He looked back at his reflection. The anxiety in his eyes hadn't vanished. Because there was another question: the Board of Directors. Those nonentities. Those rats who had fed from his hand for years, using his genius and his resources. They dared. They dared to doubt him. Norman Osborn!
"Hee-hee..." the voice grew louder and bolder, gaining substance. "Doubt? Oh, no, Normie, they don't doubt. They're afraid. They smell your power, your superiority. And they want to trample you before you become too strong. To bury you alive in their shallow world of paperwork and protocols. Pathetic cowards!"
"Shut up!" Norman hissed, clenching his teeth. "I have the situation under control. At tomorrow's meeting... I will convince them. I'll present the results. They'll see..."
"See WHAT? A mutant? A psycho with a split personality who hears voices? Oh yes, they'll appreciate that! Hee-hee-hee! They'll kick you out onto the street, Normie! Strip you of everything! Your company! Your name! Your... Harry."
The mention of his son hit him in the gut. Harry... His disappointment. His eternal struggle to measure up... No. He couldn't let that happen.
"Exactly! You can't!" the voice became almost jubilant, malicious. "So why grovel before these worms? Why PLAY by their rules? Rules are for sheep, Normie! And you are a wolf! No... you are something more! You are the future!"
"I am Norman Osborn!" he barked into the empty office. "The head of Oscorp! And I will not allow a bunch of bureaucrats to destroy my life's work!"
"Osborn? Ha! That name will soon be a synonym for failure if you just sit there!" The voice was now right in his ear, snide and persuasive. "But the Goblin... Oh yes! The Green Goblin! Now that's a name that will make them tremble! A name that will become a legend! Your legend!"
Goblin. The word had surfaced in his mind during the transformation. An image. A grinning mask, a symbol of chaos and power. His true face.
"No... This is madness..."
"Madness? No, Normie, this is freedom! Freedom from their petty laws, their morality, their fears! Can't you feel it? The strength! The speed! An intellect that makes the world's great minds look like nothing! You can do anything! Absolutely anything! And you're going to humiliate yourself before these... bugs?"
Norman closed his eyes, trying to ward off the obsession. But images rose before him. The faces of the board members. Menken, that slippery schemer. Fargas, that old fool, always dissatisfied. Balkan, an aging idiot with the ambitions of Napoleon... Their smug smiles, their hidden contempt, their fear of his success...
"Imagine their faces, Normie..." the Goblin whispered suggestively. "Imagine how they'll scream when they see you... the real you! Imagine their fear, their terror... Imagine them begging for mercy... Hee-hee-hee! Menken could be roasted by his own shares. And Fargas... hmm... sent on a flight without a parachute from the roof of Oscorp! Oops! An industrial accident! What a pity! And old man Balkan... oh, I have a special idea for him... something... explosive! A pumpkin bomb right into his fancy office! BOOM! Hee-hee-HA-HA-HA!"
Sadistic laughter echoed in Norman's skull. He felt his own heart begin to beat in time with this mad merriment. Disgust struggled with... excitement. A dark, forbidden pleasure at the thought of revenge, of the complete and absolute humiliation of those who dared stand in his way.
"I... I can't... Harry..."
"Harry? What about Harry? You'll do it FOR him! To secure his future! To show him what REAL POWER means! He'll be proud of a father who didn't let himself be broken! A father who became... a god! And if he doesn't understand... well, the lesson will be painful, but useful. Hee-hee!"
Logic. Distorted, monstrous, but logic. The Goblin struck at his most vulnerable spots—the fear of loss, the thirst for power, his wounded ego. And the serum... it amplified all these emotions, blurring the lines between right and wrong, between Norman Osborn and... him.
Norman looked at his reflection again. The face was the same, but the eyes... crazy green sparks danced in them. The corner of his mouth involuntarily twitched upward into a predatory, anticipating smirk.
"They... they deserve it," he whispered, and his voice was already different. Lower, rasping. "All of them. Traitors. Parasites."
"YES! Exactly! Finally, you understand, Normie!" the Goblin's voice sounded triumphant, merging with his own thoughts. "Stop hiding! Stop pretending to be... human! Show them your true nature! It's showtime! Time for the Goblin!"
Resistance withered. The last remnants of reason, morality, and humanity were swept away by a wave of euphoria from his newfound power and thirst for revenge.
The smirk on his face grew wider, madder. His eyes burned with an unhealthy green fire. Norman Osborn vanished. Only the Goblin remained, still locked within a human shell. But it wouldn't be long... soon he would take Norman's place, and Norman would take his, locked in a cage...
"Yes... Showtime," he growled in a voice that no longer belonged to Norman Osborn. He turned sharply away from the window. His movements became swift and predatory, full of restrained energy. He was no longer a tired businessman.
He crossed the office with confident, springy steps. Not a shadow of doubt. Only anticipation. Anticipation of chaos, fear, and... fun. His fun.
He walked up to one of the bookshelves filled with volumes on economics and corporate law—how ironic! A light press on the spine of one book, an inconspicuous click—and the entire shelf section slid silently aside, revealing a dark opening and a smooth metal door with a combination lock.
The Goblin chuckled. Secrets. How he loved secrets! And this was one of the best. His personal sanctuary. His arsenal.
His fingers danced across the touch panel, entering a complex code—a combination only he knew. The door opened with a quiet hiss, revealing an elevator car. He stepped inside, the door closed, and the elevator slid smoothly downward, carrying him deep beneath the mansion's foundation, into the heart of his secret empire.
The descent was short, but to the Goblin, it felt like an eternity. Impatience burned in his chest. He could almost feel the cold metal of the armor on his skin, the vibration of the Glider beneath his feet, the cheerful whistle of pumpkin bombs.
Finally, the elevator stopped. The doors slid open, and he stepped into his lair.
It was a spacious, high-tech room, brightly lit by the cold glow of LED panels. The air was sterile, with a faint scent of ozone and chemicals. Racks of weapon prototypes, flasks of bubbling liquids in various colors, and complex equipment for synthesis and analysis lined the walls. Several large monitors on the wall displayed data streams—Oscorp financial reports, device schematics, "OZ" serum analysis results... A slight mess—scattered tools, stacks of printouts—betrayed the feverish work that had been going on here lately.
But all that was just a backdrop. The main attraction was in the center.
On a special platform, lit from below, it sat—the Glider. A sleek, predatory machine resembling a giant bat or a stingray, made of dark green composite material. Jet nozzles, sharp wings, built-in machine guns, and rocket launchers—the very embodiment of speed and lethal threat. His creation. His wings.
And nearby, on a mannequin encased in a protective field, hung the Green Goblin armor. Metallic, angular, painted in that same toxic green color with purple accents. The helmet... oh, that helmet! A frozen grimace of madness, a grinning mask with pointed ears and empty eye sockets, behind which were lenses capable of seeing in the dark and analyzing the enemy. The armor didn't just protect. It terrified. It was a symbol. A symbol of madness and fear.
And the gadgets... neatly laid out on the workbench nearby. Pumpkin bombs—small orange spheres packed with explosives of varying power, from stunning to lethal. Some had timers, others remote detonators. Nearby were razor-sharp bat-shaped throwing blades. Electroshock gloves. Smoke bombs. An entire arsenal for... fun.
The Goblin slowly approached the armor. He reached out and touched the cold metal of the helmet. His fingers traced the curves of the grin.
"Soon..." he hissed, and his voice echoed with anticipation and pure, unadulterated madness. "Very soon, my dear directors... you will get to know me much better..."
Morning. December 19. Oscorp Industries
The next morning found Norman Osborn not in his office or his secret lair beneath the mansion, but in the heart of his empire—in the conference room on the top floor of the Oscorp tower. Sunlight flooded the vast room through panoramic floor-to-ceiling windows, reflecting off the polished surface of the long table and the impeccable suits of those gathered. The air was cool and still, charged with expectation and poorly concealed tension.
Norman entered last. He moved confidently, back straight and head held high, radiating an aura of power and control he had carefully cultivated for years. A slight, condescending smile played on his face, as if he were about to announce another triumph rather than attend his own trial. The scratches on his face were neatly covered with foundation, but a keen observer might have noticed an unnatural glint in his green eyes and a slight twitching of the fingers of his left hand, which he kept behind his back.
"A freak show, Normie! Hee-hee! Look at them! Sitting there like turkeys before Christmas! Fat, smug, cowardly... And they dare to judge YOU?" the Goblin's voice in his head was full of contempt and amusement.
Norman ignored it, taking his place at the head of the table. He scanned the room. Maximilian Fargas, an old friend of his father, gray-haired and straight as a rod, his face an impenetrable mask. Henry Balkan, eternally calm with a constant cup of tea in his hand, his beady eyes studying Norman intently. Donald Menken, slippery as an eel, his darting gaze betraying nervousness. And the others—pawns, extras in his game who had dared to raise their heads today.
He allowed the silence to linger, enjoying their discomfort. Then he cleared his throat, drawing their attention, and began to speak. His voice was steady and confident, with those very notes of superiority that so annoyed his opponents.
"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I'm glad to see everyone here. I hope you slept well? I have news for you that I am sure will brighten your mood and dispel any doubts about the future of our company. As you know, a few days ago, an... unpleasant incident occurred at one of our research centers. A technical malfunction, unfortunately, claimed the lives of several of our dedicated employees. We mourn this loss and have already begun a thorough investigation. But even this tragedy cannot overshadow our main triumph."
He paused, sweeping a victorious gaze over everyone.
"Thanks to our advanced developments in the field of enhancing combat effectiveness... thanks to MY developments..." he emphasized the last word, "...Oscorp Industries has today officially overtaken Quest Aerospace to become the primary provider of the latest defense technologies for the United States military!"
He let the news hang in the air. This was his trump card. The contract that would save the company from financial collapse, the contract for which he had risked everything.
"In short, ladies and gentlemen," he continued with a satisfied smile, leaning back in his chair, "costs are down, profits are up, and our stock... after the official announcement, our stock will skyrocket! We're back on top! And all thanks to whom? That's right, thanks to me."
He expected to see shock, admiration, or perhaps even belated remorse on their faces. But he saw only... nothing. Impenetrable masks. And in Balkan's eyes, a shadow of... pity?
"Naive little fool! Hee-hee! Thought you could buy them with a trinket? A contract? They've already decided, Normie! They sold you out lock, stock, and barrel!"
"Wonderful news, Norman, excellent," Henry Balkan's voice was steady, almost casual. He took a sip of tea. "That's why we're selling the company."
The smile froze on Norman's face. Had he heard right? Selling?
"What?" he asked, feeling an icy chill begin to grip him from the inside.
"Yes," Balkan nodded, unperturbed as he set his cup on the saucer. "Quest Aerospace is mobilizing all resources after that failed bombing of their facility. Ironically, it spurred them on. They decided to expand aggressively. And they made us an offer. A very generous offer. One that the board... cannot refuse."
"Selling to... Quest? Our main competitors? Are you... have you lost your minds?" Norman felt the ground slipping from beneath his feet. This couldn't be happening.
"It could, Normie, it could! Hee-hee! While you were playing god in your lab, these rats pulled off a deal behind your back! Classic!"
"Why wasn't I informed?!" Norman's voice broke into a shout. He jumped up, leaning his knuckles on the table. "I am the Chairman of the Board! I am the founder! You had no right!.."
"Calm down, Norman," Fargas intervened. The old man's voice was firm, but there was no hostility in it, only weariness. "Everything was done according to the bylaws. We had the right to call an emergency meeting without your presence, given the... extraordinary circumstances of your absence due to the... incident."
"But... why Quest? Why do they want Oscorp?"
"They don't want a power struggle with opposition in leadership," Balkan cut in again, looking at Norman with poorly concealed malice. "They want the company in its entirety. Clean. Without... complications."
Norman went cold. He realized where this was going even before Fargas spoke the next words.
"Quest Aerospace has one condition, Norman," Maximilian said slowly, looking him straight in the eyes. "A key condition for the deal. They require that you step down as CEO and resign from the Board of Directors. Completely."
Silence. A ringing, deafening silence. Norman looked at Fargas, then at Balkan, then at the others. Their faces were expressionless. The verdict had been delivered.
"The board..." Fargas continued, seeing Norman remain silent, "...expects your letter of resignation within thirty days. This will allow for the preservation of face... for you and the company. The deal with Quest will be finalized immediately after..."
"Face? Hee-hee! What face, Normie? They don't care about your face! They want your toys! Your company! Your LIFE!"
"No..." Norman whispered. All his feigned confidence vanished. Only fear remained. A panicked, suffocating fear of losing everything. "No... Max... please..." he turned a pleading gaze toward Fargas, a man he had known since childhood, his father's friend. "Max, please! Don't do this! Oscorp... it's... it's all I have! It's my life!"
He took a step toward Fargas, reaching out like a drowning man clutching at a straw. It was pathetic. Humiliating.
"Ugh, Normie! You weakling! BEGGING them? These nonentities? Where is your pride? Where is your RESOLVE from yesterday?!" the Goblin inside him winced in disgust.
Fargas looked away. Pain reflected on his face, but the decision was unshakable. "Norman, we are unanimous. The decision is made. I'm sorry. We've decided to announce the sale immediately after the World Unity Festival in a few weeks. It's a landmark event, a good backdrop for the... merger."
"I'm very sorry, Norman," he added more quietly, almost sincerely.
"You're out, Norman," Henry Balkan finished him off, raising his cup again and looking at Osborn over the rim with cold satisfaction. He took another slow sip.
Out. The word hit Norman like a physical blow. He recoiled, breathing heavily. The world narrowed down to this table, to these indifferent or malicious faces. The faces of those who had betrayed him. Those who had stolen everything from him.
He stood in the middle of the room like a cornered beast. Rage, cold and all-consuming, began to displace the fear and despair. Rage at them. Rage at himself—for his weakness, for his naivety.
"That's more like it, Normie! Anger! Rage! Let them loose! Let them consume you from within! Let them turn you... into ME!" the Goblin exulted.
"My... creation..." Norman rasped, his voice trembling with suppressed fury. He looked at them again, but now there was no plea in his eyes. There was fire. "Do you... do you even understand WHAT you're doing? Oscorp isn't just a company! It's ME! I created it from nothing! From scratch! Remember those years? When we were cramped in a garage? When I didn't sleep at night, worked twenty hours a day while you... while you sat around in your cozy offices?!"
He slammed his fist onto the table. The polished surface cracked. The board members flinched.
"I put everything into this! My whole life! My whole soul! My sweat! My blood!" he screamed, no longer caring about self-control. "Every formula, every patent, every dollar of profit—it's MINE! I ripped it out of this world with my teeth! I sacrificed everything—family, health, sleep—for Oscorp! For the future! And you?! What did you do?! You sat on what was already made! Counted the profits! Were afraid to take a risk! Afraid to believe!"
He scanned them with a mad gaze. "You're all parasites! You clung to me, sucked my blood, my genius! And now, when I stand on the threshold of my greatest triumph, when I hold the future in my hands... you want to throw me away like a used glove?! Sell my creation to these... upstarts from Quest?! So they can claim my glory?!"
His voice cracked; his breathing became ragged. He was almost suffocating with rage and a sense of injustice.
"Yes! Tell them! Tell these bastards everything! Let them know who they're dealing with! Let them tremble!" the Goblin egged him on.
But Norman suddenly went quiet. He straightened up sharply, ran a hand through his hair, smoothing it down. A mask appeared on his face again. But it was a different mask. Not that of a confident businessman. A cold, impenetrable mask of something else. He looked at Balkan, then at Fargas.
"Out, you say..." he said softly, almost in a whisper. His voice was steady, but there were new, terrifying notes in it. Grating, almost mechanical. And in that moment, a barely perceptible, predatory smirk flickered on his lips. The kind that didn't belong to Norman Osborn.
None of those present, stunned by his outburst and frightened by his sudden calm, noticed that smirk. They didn't notice the icy glint in his eyes. They saw only a man resigned to defeat. They breathed a sigh of relief. The danger had passed. Norman Osborn was broken.
How wrong they were.
Norman Osborn might have been broken. But from his wreckage, something else was being born. Something strong, ruthless, and absolutely insane.
He turned silently and walked toward the exit. His steps were firm and measured. He didn't look back. Why bother? He knew he would see them all again. Very soon. At the World Unity Festival.
"Oh yes, Normie! The Unity Festival! Hee-hee-hee!" the Goblin's voice sounded in his head no longer as a stranger's whisper, but as his own thoughts, full of dark merriment. "What an ironic name for a... farewell show! We'll show them real unity! Unity with their fears! Unity with chaos! Unity... with death! It will be unforgettable! It will be... fireworks!"
The conference room door closed behind Norman Osborn, leaving behind the stunned and unsuspecting members of the board. They thought they had won. They didn't know they had just signed their own death warrants. And outside the door walked no longer Norman Osborn, but the Green Goblin, anticipating his first performance. And he was going to ensure it was a sold-out show.