Under Norman Osborn's direct orders, Darren's private lab was up and running in record time.
It wasn't just a lab—it was a small kingdom.
Spacious, isolated, outfitted with state-of-the-art research instruments and enough reagents to turn an entire floor of Oscorp into a controlled explosion if mishandled.
Norman even planned to assign him a full research team, but Darren refused.
He only accepted one assistant: Gwen Stacy, Oscorp's bright-eyed intern, who had somehow gone from student researcher to part-time fire hazard companion.
...
A few days passed.
When Norman entered the lab, a pungent aroma hit him square in the face.
At first, he thought something had gone catastrophically wrong—some reagent overheated, a culture burned out—
until he saw Darren and Gwen standing over the workbench...
Stirring a steaming pot of hotpot.
"Remember," Darren said solemnly, "tripe needs to go in seven up, eight down. Precision matters."
"Got it!" Gwen chirped, completely focused, wielding chopsticks with the seriousness of a surgeon.
The pair were so engrossed in their "experiment" they didn't even notice Norman standing in the doorway, veins bulging.
Finally, his composure cracked.
"What in God's name are you two doing?!"
Gwen jumped, nearly dropping her slice of tripe back into the boiling soup.
Darren, on the other hand, didn't even flinch.
"Can't you tell?" he said calmly. "We're developing the next generation of the Life Elixir."
Norman blinked. "..."
You've got to be kidding me.
He jabbed a finger toward the bubbling pot, his jaw tight.
"You expect me to believe this is the Life Elixir?"
Darren nodded earnestly. "Indeed. This is the hotpot-flavored version. In the future, we'll be expanding the product line—spicy, mild, seafood edition—so patients can choose flavors to their liking."
Norman's face twitched violently.
Who in their right mind flavors a medical serum? It's medicine, not bubble tea!
He took a deep breath, deciding not to dignify that with a response.
"How long," he said instead, voice low, "until you can produce another successful batch?"
Darren could hear the strain in his tone—Osborn's body was deteriorating fast.
"Hard to say," he answered casually. "Could be a week or two. Maybe a month."
Norman's expression darkened immediately.
"I need it sooner," he said. "Much sooner. Can you accelerate the process?"
Darren blinked. "Why, Mr. Osborn—are you in a hurry?"
Norman's eyes flashed cold. "Don't ask questions you shouldn't."
"Alright," Darren said, shrugging. "But it's tricky. You can't rush fate."
Norman: "…"
He actually staggered a step back.
You're a scientist. A genetic engineer. And you're talking to me about FATE?
If he weren't dying, he would've thrown this lunatic out of his company himself.
"I don't care how," Norman hissed, barely keeping control of his temper. "Two days. I want results. Produce another vial, or you're out."
"I'll try my best," Darren said mildly.
Norman glared for another second before turning on his heel and storming out, muttering something under his breath about imbeciles and pseudoscience.
When the door shut, Gwen hesitated, setting her chopsticks down.
"Darren… are you sure this is okay? He seemed really angry."
Over the last few days, she'd gotten used to Darren's peculiar habits—half genius, half chaos—but Norman Osborn wasn't someone to test.
Darren waved her off. "Relax. It'll be fine."
He had no intention of becoming Norman's lab monkey anyway.
NPCs without quest markers were nothing but background noise.
He stretched lazily, then murmured, "Alright. Time to get to work."
...
From his pocket, Darren pulled out a sleek black access card, glinting under the fluorescent light.
He'd noticed something during his stay here—a floor deep beneath Oscorp that wasn't listed on any blueprint.
The elevator didn't even show its button unless you had special authorization.
And thanks to Norman's visit earlier, that authorization was now in Darren's hand.
He'd lifted the card off the old man's suit pocket without breaking stride.
After telling Gwen a quick excuse about "refining samples," he left the lab and ducked into the nearest empty restroom.
There, he put on his disguise mask—yes, that mask. The one modeled after Obadiah Stane.
Moments later, the former "Stark Industries' No.2 man" strode confidently into the hallway.
As fate would have it, a passing employee caught sight of him and froze mid-step.
"Mr. S-Stane?!"
Darren gave a cold, perfunctory nod, imitating the man's trademark boardroom arrogance.
The elevator doors opened with a polite chime. He stepped inside and pressed the access card to the reader.
For the first time, the lowest floor button flickered to life.
The doors slid shut.
Outside, the poor employee clutched his chest, exhaling shakily.
"Man, that guy's got a terrifying aura."
He blinked suddenly, the realization hitting him like ice water.
"Wait a second—wasn't Stane dead? The explosion? The news was everywhere!"
His breath caught.
"Oh my god… I just saw a ghost."
...
Ding.
The elevator descended in eerie silence before finally opening.
The hidden floor was nothing like the sterile white labs above.
It was dark, sleek, metallic—half weapons vault, half private R&D chamber.
Right in the center stood a green glider, its aerodynamic wings extended like a predatory bird's.
Nearby, on a weapon rack, were a dozen metallic spheres shaped like pumpkins and a sleek, armored combat suit in emerald plating.
Darren whistled. "Well, well… looks like the devs hid a whole loot chest down here."
He activated auto-loot mode. Within seconds, the glider, suit, and every pumpkin bomb vanished into his system inventory.
Only once the room was clean did he turn toward the far corner, where a console hummed quietly—a secured computer terminal, isolated from the Oscorp network.
He pulled out his hacker's phone, connected to the port, and within moments the encryption fell apart like paper.
Dozens of classified files flashed across the monitor.
One of them bore the seal of the U.S. Department of Defense.
Darren opened it—and there it was.
Project reports. Photos. Chemical schematics.
Oscorp and the military were collaborating to recreate the World War II super-soldier serum.
The file noted two successful samples had been produced after hundreds of failures.
In bright red font below, a single warning:
Unapproved for human testing. Extreme risk. Unstable results.
As Darren finished reading, the familiar system chime echoed in his head.
[Mission "Investigate Oscorp" Completed!]
[Reward: +1000 XP, +20 S.H.I.E.L.D. Reputation, Item: "Deathburst Grenade"]
[Item: Deathburst Grenade — Upon detonation, ignites the target's head in blue flame, drastically amplifying strength and reflexes for one final desperate act.
Side effect: complete clothing loss. User guaranteed social death.]
Darren blinked at the description, lips twitching.
"…So basically a buffed suicide bomb… with streaking as a bonus."
He couldn't help but grin.
"Now that's my kind of item."