The morning air carried the faint tang of sawdust and fresh paint when Ethan arrived at the Newark print shop. Contractors were still moving tools in and out of the gutted space, but the shape of something real—something wonderful—was beginning to show through the renovations. He pushed the door open and was immediately struck by the transformation. Bare concrete had been replaced with tiled flooring, and wiring panels hung neatly along the walls.
Peter was already there, crouched by a stack of equipment boxes near the far wall. He straightened when Ethan entered, his expression a mixture of fatigue and pride. "You're just in time. They delivered half the office equipment already."
Ethan glanced at the pile—computers still wrapped in plastic, scanners stacked carefully against a wall, and, off to the side, a hulking offset press waiting to be bolted into place. "Not bad," he said, brushing dust off his sleeve as if the place belonged to him already. "I'd say this is about eighty percent of what we need to get the ball rolling."
Peter gave a small nod. "And I did what you asked. Talked to some old contacts." He hesitated, then added, "I've got two junior journalists willing to take a chance, plus a reporter and a photographer. They're not top of the line, but… they're hungry for a chance to go to the top."
Ethan smiled faintly. "Hunger is better than safe. Names?"
"Jessica Lane and Marcus Doyle for the journalists," Peter said, ticking them off on his fingers. "Jessica's just out of college interning at the Bugle. Marcus worked freelance, mostly human-interest stories, but he wants stability. The reporter is Franklin 'Frank' Morita—older, experienced, knows how to ask the right questions, but never got his big break. And the photographer is Lila Connors. Quick eye, no nonsense."
"Good," Ethan said. He pulled a notebook from his jacket and scribbled the names down. Jessica, Marcus, Frank, Lila. Each one a piece on his board, each one about to be tied into something far bigger than they realized. "Looks like we got ourselves a skeleton crew."
Peter raised an eyebrow. "Skeleton crew for what? We barely have furniture, and you're already talking like this is the Daily Bugle."
Ethan smirked, then tapped the offset press waiting in the corner. "I guess I misspoke then. What I meant was that they will be the backbone of Insight. You don't need a skyscraper to make waves. Just ink, paper, and a story the city can't ignore."
Ethan walked through the half-finished office, mentally arranging it into something functional. "So. Payroll. Editor—Peter Parker. Security and logistics—Felicia Harper, aka Felicia Hardy. Owner—Isaac Maddox, aka Ethan Kane." He said his false name smoothly, letting it roll off his tongue as if he truly existed. "Journalists—Jessica and Marcus. Reporter—Frank Morita. Photographer—Lila Connors."
Peter frowned. "You're really serious about putting my name on this as editor?"
"You wanted power, and that comes with the responsibility," Ethan replied, not looking at him as he ran a hand along the dusty surface of a new desk. "Now you've got it in spades. You'll be the face of the paper. You make the calls on content. I'll worry about funding and direction."
"And Felicia?" Peter asked skeptically. "Security? Really?"
Ethan grinned. "How else are we supposed to meet up without drawing too much suspicion. Besides, who else would you trust to keep the vultures from tearing down the nest before it even takes flight? I put my money on the master thief."
Peter muttered something under his breath about "her kind of security" but didn't push further. Instead, he started unpacking one of the computers. Ethan noted how carefully Peter handled the equipment—gentle, precise, the way someone might handle glass. Responsibility looked heavier on his shoulders, but not unwelcome.
The deliveries filled most of the floor:
Eight computers, their monitors boxed neatly.
Three flatbed scanners and two laser printers ready to grind out copy.
Two photocopiers standing side by side.
Eight film cameras, packed in black leather cases.
A fax machine and wire-service scanner sitting idle, awaiting connection to the phone lines.
And the crown jewel: one small offset press, its rollers gleaming, hungry for paper.
At the far end, contractors had partitioned a room for a darkroom, its door already marked with a temporary sign: No Entry—Light Sensitive.
Peter whistled softly as he looked over the haul. "I didn't think you'd actually pull it off. We've got better gear here than some mid-tier rags."
"Equipment's the easy part," Ethan said, leaning against a desk as if he'd been born in newsrooms. "It's the story that truly matters."
They stood side by side as electricians snaked fresh wiring through the walls, phones and fax lines humming to life along one side of the room. Ethan watched them work, arms folded, his voice low and deliberate.
"Our first story has to be a blade, Peter. Something sharp enough to cut straight through the noise and make the city pay attention."
Peter's answer came instantly, flat and heavy. "Oscorp."
Ethan's eyes glinted. "Exactly. Norman Osborn built a fortress out of money, lawyers, and fear. We're going to crack it open. The shareholder meeting is seven days away—perfect timing. We hit him just before, while his investors are watching. The panic will spread faster than any press release he can buy."
Peter's jaw tightened. "I still think that's suicide. He has resources. He'll bury us."
"Not if we bury him first," Ethan replied smoothly. "That's why we launch here. Insight has no history, no reputation for him to target. We'll be too small for him to notice and by the time he realizes we exist, the presses will already be running and the headlines will be everywhere—diners, subway kiosks, corner stores. He won't know where to swing first."
Peter studied him uneasily. "You make it sound like the headline's already written."
"I've had it written for weeks," Ethan admitted, almost under his breath. He didn't share the exact words echoing in his head, but they were there—INSIGHT EXPOSES OSBORN. OSBORN FOUND TO HAVE FRAMED SPIDER-MAN. SPIDER-MAN CLEARED.
He glanced at Peter, his voice cold and certain. "This paper will be our sword. Ink and truth, sharpened into a weapon. We'll show the city what Norman really is. And we'll do it as Peter Parker and Isaac Maddox. I promised to show you how Peter Parker can save this city not just Spider-Man."