As night fell, the lights of the Osborn Estate flickered on one by one.
Harry climbed out of the taxi, his backpack slung over his shoulder, and looked up at the massive oak doors.
The light peeking through the cracks was dim; only the foyer’s wall sconces were lit.
His father wasn’t home—or at least, not in any of the usual places.
He pushed the door open quietly.
In this mansion of several thousand square feet, there was no one he actually needed to worry about disturbing.
The butler emerged from the side wing the moment he entered, respectfully asking if he wanted dinner.
Harry shook his head and headed straight upstairs.
His bedroom was on the third floor, the door on the right at the end of the hallway.
The room was vast—so large that even with all the lights on, shadows still clung to the corners.
Harry tossed his bag onto the bed and didn’t turn on the lights.
He simply stood by the window, looking out at the garden.
Moonlight spilled over the manicured hedges, making the green orbs glow with a cold, pale light.
Then, he walked over to the wardrobe.
It was an old-fashioned solid wood wardrobe, its carved doors inset with a full-length mirror.
Harry opened it to find his clothes hanging in perfect order—shirts, jackets, suit trousers, arranged from light to dark.
He reached in, pushing the hangers aside, and felt for a groove in the back panel.
He gave it a light press.
*Click.* The back panel popped open.
Behind the wardrobe lay a narrow passage, wide enough for only one person to edge through.
At the end was a steel door with no handle, only a fingerprint scanner.
Harry pressed his thumb against it.
A green light swept over his print, and the door slid open silently.
The secret room wasn’t large, perhaps twenty square feet.
But the things inside were enough to make anyone stop in their tracks.
The walls were covered in photographs.
Dozens, hundreds of them.
They were connected by thin red threads, forming a complex web of relationships.
Harry’s gaze swept over the images—most featured a figure in a skintight white suit, swinging between buildings.
Some were blurry, others sharp; there were shots from day and night, capturing Spider-Woman from every conceivable angle and lighting condition.
Some were clipped from the news, others were taken from a distance with long-range lenses, and the rest…
Harry didn’t know where his father had gotten them.
On the left side of the wall was another set of photos: close-ups of several spiders.
They weren’t ordinary spiders.
They were several times larger than normal, their bodies a deep, unnatural purple with patterns on their backs that resembled circuit boards.
Each photo had a printed label beneath it with a serial number: OZ-01, OZ-02, OZ-03…
all the way to OZ-11.
the spot for OZ-00 was empty.
The label was there, but in place of a photo was a blank piece of paper with two words written in red ink: ESCAPED.
Harry stood in the center of the room, his breathing turning shallow.
This wasn’t his first time here, but the suffocating sensation never faded with each visit.
His father, Norman Osborn—head of the Osborn Group and one of the top ten wealthiest men in America—had hidden a secret room covered in photos of Spider-Woman behind his son’s bedroom.
Harry didn’t know what it meant.
Or rather, he didn’t want to know.
“Harry.” A voice came from behind him.
Low, steady, and devoid of emotion.
Harry spun around.
Norman Osborn stood at the entrance of the secret room.
He wore a dark gray housecoat; his hair was graying but meticulously groomed, and the lines on his face were etched deep.
He was in good shape for a man in his fifties.
Standing there with his back straight and his gaze fixed on his son, Harry instinctively wanted to take a half-step back.
“Father,” Harry’s voice was calmer than he expected.
“I thought you weren’t home.” “I am.” Norman stepped into the room.
As he passed Harry, his gaze lingered on the boy’s face for a second, scanning from forehead to chin as if searching for something.
“Have you had dinner?” “I’m not hungry.” Norman didn’t press the issue.
He walked over to a leather sofa against the wall and sat down.
The sofa was positioned perfectly to face the wall of photographs.
Outside, the moonlight filtered through the room’s only small window, cutting a silver ribbon of light across the floor that landed right at Norman’s feet.
Norman sat on the line between light and shadow.
His upper body was shrouded in darkness, while his legs were illuminated by the moon.
His eyes flickered slightly as he looked at the photos—or perhaps at something deeper behind them.
Harry stood where he was, unsure of what to say or whether he should leave.
“How is school?” Norman asked suddenly.
His voice emerged from the shadows, carrying a rare hint of warmth.
“It’s fine,” Harry said.
“Have you met anyone…
special?” Harry’s spine stiffened slightly.
He thought of Ryan Quinn, he thought of Gwen, and he thought of Thompson’s disappearance.
But he only shook his head.
“No.” Norman was silent for a few seconds.
Then he reached out and pointed to a photo of Spider-Woman on the wall—the clearest one, showing her swinging over a bridge in Queens, her white suit striking against the moonlight.
“Do you know who she is?” “Spider-Woman.
A vigilante.” “Vigilante,” Norman repeated the word.
The corners of his mouth quirked up, but it wasn’t a smile; it was closer to mockery, laced with a trace of bitterness.
“Do you know why she has those abilities?” Harry shook his head.
Norman stood up from the sofa and walked to the wall, his finger tapping lightly on the series of spider photos.
His fingertip stopped on the empty space for OZ-00, tracing an invisible line under the red word “ESCAPED.” “The OZ Project,” Norman said softly.
The project had begun a long time ago, long before Harry was even born.
The Osborn family carried a curse—a curse carved into their very genes.
“Do you know why my father—your grandfather—died in his early fifties?” Norman asked, not waiting for an answer.
“It wasn’t an accident.
It wasn’t cancer.
It was the genes.
There is a fatal defect in our family’s genetic sequence, like a time bomb.
It triggers at a certain age in every generation.
For some, it’s forty; for others, it’s fifty.
But no one has lived past sixty.” Norman paused.
The moonlight hit his knees, and his interlaced hands tightened slightly.
“I am fifty-three this year.
I’ve started to feel it.
It’s not pain, not a sickness, but a…
decline.
As if a gear in my body has started to loosen, or a part has begun to rust.
I know that bomb is counting down.” Norman turned to look at the photos of the spiders.
“I do not accept this.
I do not accept the word ‘destiny.’ Human medicine cannot repair my genes, so I will find my own way out.
Evolution isn’t the result of waiting—it’s the result of creation.” And so the OZ Project began.
The top biologists, geneticists, and virologists under the Osborn Group were gathered in secret with a single goal: to create a retrovirus capable of crossing species barriers, integrating the superior genes of other organisms into the human genome.
To fix that damned defect, and perhaps even transcend human limits.
They tested countless vectors and failed countless times, until that spider appeared.
OZ-00.
The first stable, replicable, truly successful test subject.
Its genetic sequence was perfect.
The activity of the viral vector reached ninety-seven percent of the theoretical value.
It carried everything Norman wanted—strength, agility, perception, and even an unnervingly sharp intuition.
It was supposed to be the key breakthrough for the OZ Project, the thing Norman would use to extend his life.
And then it escaped at the radiation exhibit.
“I used every channel available to track it.
Nothing.” Norman’s voice remained calm, but Harry could hear the tension beneath it.
“And then, she appeared.” Norman’s gaze fell on the photo of Spider-Woman.
“Less than a month after the radioactive spider went missing, a person with spider-like abilities appeared on the streets of New York.
This is no coincidence.
That spider was my creation—its abilities, no, the abilities it gave her, belong to the Osborn Group.” “I need to find her.
Not to hurt her, Harry.
I need to know what changes occurred in her body, how her genes mutated, and how those abilities function.
That data will allow me to perfect the OZ Project and fix its flaws.” Norman turned to look at Harry.
The moonlight only illuminated the lower half of his face; his lips moved, but his eyes remained hidden in the shadows.
“Do you know what this means?
If I succeed, the limits of humanity will be redefined.
Disease, aging, death—these will no longer be insurmountable walls.
The Osborn curse will end with my generation.
You—you won’t have to worry about that bomb anymore.” Harry opened his mouth to say something, but no sound came out.
He looked at his father’s eyes hidden in the dark, seeing the scientist’s obsession and the businessman’s ambition.
But beneath that, there was something else.
Norman Osborn was afraid to die.
He feared it every single day.
He knew he was walking toward the finish line, and he refused to accept it.
“So,” Harry finally found his voice, “you want me to…
look out for anyone unusual at school?” Norman didn’t answer directly.
He sat back down on the sofa, his body swallowed by darkness once more.
The moonlight only touched his knees and hands.
“You’re a bright boy, Harry.
You know what I’m doing, and you know why I’m doing it.” Silence.
“I just need to find her,” Norman’s voice came from the dark.
“Ask her a few questions.
That’s all.” Harry looked at the silhouette of his father.
The moonlight moved inch by inch, crawling over Norman’s knees, up his forearms, and finally stopping at his chest.
But his face remained in the dark, his expression unreadable.
He wanted to say: *You’re lying.* He wanted to say: *You won’t just ask her a few questions.* He wanted to say: *You’ll take her apart, just like you took those spiders apart, until you get what you want.* But he said nothing.
Because he knew that even if he did, Norman wouldn’t admit it.
Norman himself might not even realize how much he was hiding beneath that “that’s all”—things he wasn’t willing to face.
“Go get some rest.
You have school tomorrow.” Harry turned and walked out of the secret room, through the narrow passage, and back into his bedroom.
The wardrobe door stood open, and the full-length mirror reflected his own face—pale, exhausted, with a shimmer of moisture in his eyes he didn’t want to acknowledge.
Harry closed the wardrobe, sealing the entrance to the secret room, and sat on his bed.
The moonlight shone through the window, landing near his hand.
He stared at the silver-white light, his father’s words replaying in his mind: “Ask her a few questions.
That’s all.” He was lying.
Harry knew it.
Norman Osborn never “just” did anything.
Everything he did had a purpose, and behind that purpose lay an even larger scheme.
If he found Spider-Woman, he wouldn’t just ask her questions.
He would dismantle her, study her, replicate her, and then— And then what?
He didn’t know.
Perhaps Norman himself didn’t know.
Harry only knew one thing: his father was turning into something he didn’t recognize.
He wasn’t a monster yet, at least.
He was more like a hollow shell held together by obsession.
He closed his eyes and buried his face in his palms.
Inside the secret room, Norman Osborn remained seated on the leather sofa.
The moonlight had moved further; now it only touched his shins.
His upper body was completely submerged in darkness, save for his eyes, which glowed faintly in the depths of the shadows.
On the wall, the photos of Spider-Woman glimmered with a cold white light.
The red threads connected her to the OZ Project spiders, tying the past and future together, all pointing toward Norman’s obsession and the fact he couldn’t accept.
Humans die.
Unless they evolve into something else.
Norman stood up from the sofa and walked to the wall.
He reached out, his fingertip lightly touching the blank OZ-00 label, lingering there for a long time.
“Where are you?” Norman whispered, his voice so soft only he could hear.
No one answered him.
The moonlight shifted away from him entirely.
His silhouette vanished into the black, leaving only the sound of his breathing—slow and steady.
The photos on the wall remained silent in the dark.
And in a corner of Queens, a figure in a white suit leaped from one rooftop to another.
The moonlight hit the white costume, shining brilliantly.
She didn’t know that someone had been staring at her photos for countless nights, nor did she know that someone was hunting her.
She simply jumped, disappearing into the night of Queens.