The Oscorp Tower gleamed like a cathedral to vanity.
Chrome and glass climbed toward the clouds, its atrium blazing with chandelier light that spilled out onto the street below. Cars queued at the entrance, luxury engines purring as valets dashed between them like stagehands before a performance. Reporters hovered by the red carpet, flashbulbs ready to immortalize wealth pretending to be altruism.
A black BMW pulled up to the curb, sleek and understated compared to the limos that preceded it.
Peter stepped out first. His borrowed tuxedo—Ethan's idea, Ethan's money—fit perfectly, though he still tugged at the collar as if the fabric itched against his conscience. Felicia followed, radiant and deadly in a form-fitting black dress that made the photographers' lenses swivel.
"Relax and smile," she murmured, looping her arm through his as they approached the marble steps. "You look like a man walking into his own trial."
Peter forced a grin. "I don't usually get dressed up for crime."
"First time for everything. Who knows, you might enjoy it, Peter."
They handed the keys to the valet, Peter mumbling thanks, while Felicia's gaze swept the scene like radar. She wasn't here for champagne or applause—she was mapping angles, counting cameras, measuring rhythms of the guards' patrols. The building's face was glamour, but she could already sense the heartbeat beneath: security tension, protocol hum, nerves disguised as composure.
"Security chief's over by the west bar," she whispered, the faintest tilt of her head. "You can tell by his posture. He's too stiff to be enjoying the night. Also, you see the earpiece?"
Peter followed her gaze—man in his fifties, compact, posture like a blade. "Yeah. Definitely not here for the canapés."
She smiled. "Good, you're learning."
Inside, the atrium was a shrine of marble and money. A glass sculpture spiraled up toward the vaulted ceiling, catching the light and scattering it like shards of frozen lightning. Waiters moved like ghosts between clusters of chatter, their trays of champagne flutes reflecting the gleam of Oscorp's logo embossed across the wall.
Peter exhaled slowly. Somewhere in this building was enough digital evidence to ruin Norman Osborn forever. He could almost feel the gravity of it pulling at him from below the marble floors.
His phone buzzed—a message from MJ: "How's the gala? Don't forget to eat something. You're bad at pretending you're not nervous."
Peter smiled, the warmth of the text cutting through the falseness around him. He typed back quickly: "All good. Pretty bored, wish you were here. I'll try to finish up early. Will call after."
He didn't hit send right away. Guilt stuck to his fingers. The lie was small, almost merciful—but it still hurt.
Felicia watched him from the edge of her champagne glass. "Girl checking in?"
"Yeah."
"Tell her you're with another woman," she said sweetly, "but it's for her sake."
He gave her a flat look. "You're enjoying this too much."
"I told you, Peter, I live for danger. I also don't mind being here with you in this moment. I like it."
Meanwhile, in the guts of the building, Ethan moved through service corridors no guest would ever see. The scent of grease and heat pressed in. Air vents rattled above. He kept his eyes down as he passed real maintenance staff—his borrowed uniform a perfect match, name tag reading E. Foster, IT Support.
He reached a junction door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY and ducked inside. The small room beyond was filled with the low hum of machinery and the tangle of fiber-optic wiring panels glowing faint green.
Perfect.
He shrugged out of the gray coveralls, revealing a tailored black suit beneath—less expensive than Peter's, but infinitely more functional. The metamorphosis took seconds. He folded the uniform neatly, slid it into the corner, then approached the nearest Structured Wiring Panel.
"Hello, my little nervous system," he murmured.
A compact toolkit opened on his knee. Within minutes, he had patched a data splice into the visual feeds—Oscorp's security cameras flickered on his portable display. The ballroom, the elevators, the service stairwells. All now mirrored silently to his private terminal.
"Vision achieved," he said quietly.
He clipped a small receiver to his belt and pulled out a handheld radio—a cheap model, secondhand, bought from a surplus store two blocks from Queens. He'd already recorded the guards' standard frequencies earlier that afternoon. Now, he synced them.
The static crackled—then voices, faint but distinct, bled through.
"East entrance clear."
"Copy. West rotation in five."
"VIP escort arriving—repeat, VIP escort arriving."
Ethan smiled faintly. "Good."
Back upstairs, Black Cat was playing her role as Felicia Harper flawlessly.
Her laughter was soft, measured, practiced—just enough to disarm the cluster of Oscorp executives circling her like moths. They were drawn by her smile and beauty, unaware it was a weapon. Every conversation was reconnaissance; every glance an infiltration.
She traced the layout of the room in her head. Two visible exits, three hidden by decor. Guards at the edges—not too tight, but alert. Their gaze passed over her without lingering. She wasn't a threat, not to them. Just another beautiful distraction.
Her comm buzzed once—a silent vibration against her collarbone. Ethan's signal. Feeds are live.
She brushed her hair back, murmuring into her wrist, "Copy that. Ballroom clear. Heading to elevator zone in ten."
Felicia then pretended to accidentally spill some wine on herself and asked a waiter where the 'powder room' was. After being directed to the area, she pulled Peter over and, with a smile, asked him to escort her there.
Peter moved beside her, playing his part as the slightly awkward plus-one. He wasn't bad at it; the suit helped. But his eyes kept darting, every instinct wired for danger instead of polite conversation.
"Relax," Felicia whispered. "You're doing fine. Just try not to look like you're casing the joint. Now walk me to the powder room. Remember, relax."
He smirked. "And what should I look like?"
She gave him a slow, predatory smile. "Like a man trying not to fall for his date. You've got the world's most beautiful woman on your arm tonight to enjoy it."
Peter nearly choked on his drink. "I—I'm not—"
She laughed. "You're adorable when you panic. It's very attractive."
Down below, Ethan watched the scene unfold through the video feeds, expression neutral. He monitored the elevator queues, waiting for the VIP rotation to shift so that Felicia and Peter could slip into the staff route unnoticed. Timing was everything.
He adjusted his earpiece as the ballroom feed zoomed on the stage. The emcee—a tall man with lacquered hair and a grin too wide—was approaching the podium. The crowd hushed.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the man began, his voice echoing through the speakers, "please welcome Oscorp's visionary, the man of the hour—Mr. Norman Osborn!"
Applause thundered.
Felicia turned her head back toward the stage, eyes narrowing.
Norman Osborn rose from a nearby table, smile sharp enough to cut glass. His green tie caught the light as he stepped toward the podium—then stopped midway.
A murmur rippled through the crowd. The emcee hesitated, hand cupped over his microphone. Someone had approached the stage from the main entrance—someone important enough to make Osborn's expression freeze for half a second before he rearranged it into charm.
Felicia tilted her head, curiosity sparking. "Well," she murmured, "that's interesting timing."
In her earpiece, Ethan's voice came soft and steady: "That wasn't supposed to happen."
Peter's brow furrowed. "Who's the guest?"
Felicia's smile turned faintly dangerous. "Ethan will find out. For now, let's head to the powder room."
The string quartet kept playing, the champagne still flowed, but beneath the marble sheen, the first ripple of unease spread like a hairline crack in glass.
And somewhere deep in Oscorp's circuitry, Ethan's feed flickered once—just once—before stabilizing again.