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Inside the vast dressing room of Osborn Manor, Harry Osborn stood before a long row of carefully arranged suits. His fingers moved slowly across the fabrics as he weighed each option, finally selecting one that was neither too flashy nor overly somber—formal enough to show respect, understated enough to avoid arrogance.
He hadn't forgotten what his father, Norman Osborn, told him after they left the police station yesterday.
Go visit the Spencer family.
Harry exhaled softly.
"I just hope Spencer's wife and son aren't completely broken," he murmured to himself. "I've never been good at comforting people."
Once dressed, Harry walked through the grand first-floor hall of the manor and headed straight for the garage. He didn't want to draw attention today. No sports cars. No noise.
As he reached the stairs, a hoarse voice called out from the living room.
"Harry… where are you going?"
Harry turned in surprise.
Norman Osborn was curled up on the sofa, wrapped tightly in a blanket. His usually sharp eyes looked dull, his posture unusually small.
"Father?" Harry walked over quickly. "Why aren't you resting in your bedroom?"
Norman tightened his grip on the blanket.
"I… I don't know," he admitted. "For the past two days, I've been having nightmares. Demons laughing right next to my ear. I tried sleeping pills, but they don't help."
Harry frowned. He poured a glass of hot water and placed it on the coffee table.
"The pressure from the Osborn Group is too much," Harry said gently. "I'm going to see the Smythes. I'll be back soon."
Norman nodded but didn't look reassured.
---
The garage lay on the west side of the manor. Harry's gaze passed over rows of luxury cars before settling on a familiar, low-key Cadillac—the one his father often used.
As the engine started, Harry turned on the radio, quietly recalling Spencer Smythe's address.
"…Following the tragedy involving the Osborn Group and the transformation of Dr. Otto into the criminal known as 'Doctor Octopus,' New York has once again been shaken by violent crime…"
Harry grimaced. He reached out to change the station.
Then the radio voice continued.
"Early yesterday morning, a mother and son were brutally murdered in an apartment in Queens. The killer later set fire to the scene in an attempt to destroy evidence."
Harry's hand froze.
"According to investigations, the deceased were the wife and son of Spencer Smythe, senior robotics expert at the Osborn Group…"
The world went silent.
Harry stared ahead, his finger resting uselessly on the radio button.
Just seconds ago, he'd been planning how to console the Smythe family.
Now… there was no family left to visit.
He imagined Spencer sitting alone in a detention room, hearing this news.
The broadcast paused briefly.
Then the host returned, voice shaking.
"We apologize for the interruption. We have a breaking update. Last night, shortly before midnight, Spencer Smythe committed suicide in his detention cell."
"A series of tragedies connected to the Osborn Group raises serious concerns about the company's future."
"What kind of cruel killer is responsible for these murders?"
Smash!
Harry stumbled out of the car, slamming the door shut. He staggered into the manor's front garden, as if only sunlight could keep him grounded.
It was a bright, cloudless day.
Yet Harry felt colder than ever.
Every shadow looked wrong. Every sound felt hostile. It was as though the world itself might suddenly tear him apart.
Scientists had always worked for Osborn. Spencer had worked for Osborn.
And now they were dying—one by one.
Will it be me next?
Suddenly, Harry understood his father's nightmares.
---
"Harry."
A familiar voice broke through his thoughts.
Batman had arrived—wearing Peter Parker's face.
"Peter!" Harry rushed over, gripping his friend's arm as if afraid he might disappear.
Batman felt nothing. He had no memories of Peter Parker, no bond with Harry Osborn.
But this identity was necessary.
Sorry, he thought silently.
Outwardly, concern filled his expression. He placed a hand on Harry's shoulder.
"The murders are all tied to Osborn," Batman said softly. "And you—being the heir—you're under more pressure than anyone."
"You have two choices," he continued. "Let it crush you. Or use it."
"Work with the police. Find the truth. Not for the company's stock—but for those who can no longer speak."
As he spoke, Batman held his breath.
A Batarang appeared in his palm. A barely perceptible hiss released a small amount of sedative gas, and with a flick of his wrist, he sent it flying far away.
Words alone were unreliable.
Chemistry was not.
Harry's breathing soon steadied.
"You should've called first," Harry said after a moment. "I would've had the butler pick you up."
"With everything happening," Batman replied, shaking his head, "I didn't want to trouble you."
They walked toward the manor entrance together. Just before opening the door, Harry hesitated.
"Peter… I haven't told you anything yet. How did you know why I was so upset?"
Batman stopped. He looked at Harry for two seconds—exactly two.
"The news," he said calmly. "It's everywhere. Osborn is everywhere."
Then he added quietly, "Years from now, when you're old, don't forget this—there was once a friend who stood with you when things were darkest."
The door opened.
"Harry."
Norman Osborn stepped out. His posture was straighter than before. His eyes clearer.
"Father."
Harry looked relieved, though the sedative dulled his emotions.
"Peter," Norman said, studying Batman. "You should be in school. Did you come to see Harry about something?"
"The news worried me," Batman replied smoothly. "And Harry didn't come to school. I wanted to check on him."
Norman nodded, a smile tugging at his lips.
"You haven't visited Osborn Manor in a long time. Let Harry show you around. I have media interviews—and I need to cooperate with the police."
Batman said nothing.
He stared at Norman Osborn for several seconds.
Harry felt a strange tension rise.
Finally, Batman spoke.
"Mr. Osborn… your hairstyle needs attention."
Norman blinked, then reached up and touched his hair.
Flattened.
Like someone who had just removed a helmet.
"…You're right," Norman chuckled awkwardly. "Thank you. I really should be more careful about my appearance."
He hurried out.
Harry stood there, confused.
---
At the Manhattan Police Department, George Stacy looked over the documents handed to him by his assistant, Ogg.
"These are power consumption records from the New York Power Authority," Ogg said.
George nodded slowly as he read.
"Good work," George said. "The timestamps don't match."
He tapped the paper.
"The tragedy on Osborn's third underground floor happened while Dr. Otto was in the sewer."
"He was supplying power to experimental equipment—manual operation logs every few minutes. Continuous usage."
George leaned back.
"Dr. Otto never left the sewer."
"Our arrest was based on the assumption that he caused the incident on the third underground floor," George said grimly.
"It was wrong."
He folded the file.
"The killer is someone else."
And in the shadows of New York, Batman was already listening.