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When Tobey Maguire retreated to his cramped, rented room after the battle atop the Empire State Building, he felt a profound sense of nausea. It wasn't just physical exhaustion; he could feel that something was fundamentally wrong with the dark suit clinging to his body.
Ever since the chime of the bell had snapped him out of his trance, Tobey's original personality had begun to fight for control. Recalling his cold, arrogant behavior earlier that night, he felt a wave of crushing regret.
"Oh my God! How could I have said those things? How could I have acted that way? It was... it was too much!"
Standing in the dimly lit bathroom, Tobey stared into the mirror, barely recognizing the man looking back. He reached behind his neck, grasping the fabric of the suit to pull it off. Instead of sliding off easily, the material felt like super-glue, anchored deep into his pores.
As he pulled, a sharp, agonizing pain shot across his back. Worse than the pain was the sudden, overwhelming sensation of weakness. It was as if every cell in his body was screaming that without the suit, he was nothing.
The battle with Gwen had accelerated the fusion process between the host and the parasite. Removing it now would require more than just physical strength; it would require an indomitable will.
"Ah—!"
Tobey groaned in pain, stumbling out of the bathroom and crashing into a wall. The vibration shook an old, yellowed black-and-white photo off a wooden cabinet. It landed face-up on the floor.
It was Uncle Ben.
Tobey looked at the face of the man who had raised him. He remembered his singular, burning obsession: catching the man who had taken Ben's life and making him pay. The symbiote, sensing his vulnerability, fed on that negative emotion.
"If I become weak, I won't be able to avenge Uncle Ben! No... I must keep this suit!"
His hands, which had been desperately tearing at the black fabric, slowly released their grip. In response, the suit extended countless black, writhing tentacles, firmly re-anchoring itself to his skin. Tobey's first attempt to reclaim his life had failed.
The Molecular Microscope
In an inconspicuous hotel room across town, Peter was hunched over a desk, his brow furrowed in concentration. He had utilized his Mechanical Limit Breaker to forge a high-powered microscope out of nano-liquid metal.
Under the lens, the dark cells—which looked like they had been plucked from the depths of hell—pulsed with a life of their own.
Invasive Characteristics: The cells actively sought out organic matter to consume or bond with.
Rapid Self-Healing: The cellular structure could regenerate from nearly any physical trauma within seconds.
Asexual Reproduction: The cells were capable of cloning themselves at an exponential rate.
"It's terrifying," Peter muttered. "If these cells were to spread unchecked, this entire parallel Universe could face a world-ending event. The biological technology of this world isn't anywhere near capable of deciphering this."
Peter knew he held a double-edged sword. With deep blue's computing power and the right biological talents, he could potentially create something like Agent Venom. But one mistake could lead to a monster far worse than the one they had just fought.
With a thought, Peter manipulated the nano-liquid metal to form a perfect, airtight sphere, sealing the symbiote fragments safely inside.
"Where to next?" Gwen asked, watching him secure the sample. "Are we going to find this world's Peter Parker?"
Peter shook his head. "No need to rush. We're going to find... Harry."
"Harry?" Gwen blinked. "You don't mean Harry Osborn, do you?"
"Exactly," Peter replied. "The Harry we know. Or at least, this world's version of him."
The Voice in the Painting
Osborn Manor.
Within the sprawling, cold halls of the estate, Harry Osborn sat alone. He was the heir to the Osborn empire, but he was currently a man broken by loss and rejection. He had already inherited his father's dark legacy, becoming Green Goblin II to seek revenge against the man he blamed for Norman Osborn's death: his best friend, Peter Parker.
A recent accident had cost him his short-term memory, but today, after a failed confession to Mary Jane, the dam was breaking.
Harry sat on a plush leather sofa, nursing a glass of whiskey, when a voice—familiar and rasping—echoed through the silent room.
"You have forgotten your mission!"
Harry spun around. The voice had come from his father's oil painting. Suddenly, fragmented memories of gliders, pumpkin bombs, and emerald armor flooded his mind. He scrambled back, staring at himself in a large full-length mirror.
"Harry! Come here!"
The reflection in the mirror was talking back to him. Harry reached out, his finger touching the cold glass. The fog had lifted. He remembered who he was. He was the son of the Green Goblin. He was the heir to the hunt.
"Peter Parker..." Harry hissed, his handsome face twisting into a mask of murderous rage.
"Ahem!"
A deliberate cough sounded from the shadows behind him. Harry spun around, his eyes wild. Standing there, completely at ease, were Peter and Gwen.
"Harry Osborn," Peter said, looking at the young man with a calm, discerning gaze. "Maybe you should find someone to talk to."
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