As Kingpin carried out his decision, the monitor beside Bullseye's bed began screaming in sharp, rapid alarms.
Fisk didn't loosen his grip.
Instead, he covered Bullseye's nose and mouth with his other hand, sealing off every possible breath.
Bullseye's body began to convulse on instinct, but with all four limbs shattered, there was no real way for him to struggle.
In the final stretch of his life, he felt himself dragged back to that night in the hospital room.
That man.
Those calm eyes.
He had already been judged.
Devil...
Bullseye let out one last silent howl in his own mind. Looking at Fisk's utterly emotionless face, he found one last scrap of mockery inside himself.
You have no idea what you've provoked... no idea what's coming for you... you'll be down there with me soon enough... soon...
As his pupils finally lost focus, the line on the monitor flattened into one long tone.
A steady beeeeeeeep.
Fisk let go.
He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his hands with visible disgust, then casually tossed the cloth across Bullseye's face.
He put his gold-rimmed glasses back on, opened the door, and stepped out wearing an expression of polite concern just as the guards and doctors came rushing in.
"Doctor, I believe my client has taken a turn for the worse. Please do everything you can."
He never looked back again.
Back in his Maybach, Fisk dropped the act. He stared out at the streets of New York, feeling strangely unsettled.
He couldn't quite say why.
But Bullseye's eyes in those final moments had left something behind.
"Boss, where to?" the driver asked respectfully from the front seat.
"Lay low for now. Stacy's on me like a rabid dog, and that mysterious 'S' creature is still an unknown variable. Pass the word. Pull back every operation. Shut down every transaction. For the time being, we go silent."
Fisk closed his eyes and drew deeply on his cigar.
"New York has changed."
Once Kingpin's order went out, the gangs under his command pulled back.
But that didn't bring peace.
It triggered something worse.
A much larger gang war erupted as rival organizations rushed in to devour the resources and territory Kingpin had abandoned. The police, in the middle of their anti-mob crackdown, were dragged straight into it too.
But none of that mattered anymore to Norman Osborn.
Ten minutes earlier, he'd received the board secretary's final notice.
The board was no longer willing to grant him the remaining seventy-two hours it had promised.
The removal process would begin tomorrow morning at exactly eight.
Not only would he lose the CEO position, but those greedy old vultures might very well throw him to the Justice Department as a sacrificial offering to calm the public.
But Norman was ready now.
He was no longer Norman Osborn.
He was the Green Goblin.
"They want to take my company?" Norman murmured to the mirror.
The reflection didn't move its mouth, but a jagged, vicious laugh scratched through his head like nails on a chalkboard.
[Then kill them all, Norman. Kill every crawling insect who ever looked down on you. This city is ours.]
Norman didn't recoil.
He smiled.
A smile of pure, thrilled surrender.
"You're right... we're gods. Gods do not explain themselves to mortals."
He turned and looked toward the deepest part of the lab's armory.
That was where Oscorp kept the military prototypes that had been rejected: the single-rider flight glider, and the high-yield pumpkin bombs.
A week passed quickly.
The legend of the "S" man only grew louder.
That morning, the entire Parker family was eating breakfast together while watching more news coverage about the S figure on the Daily Bugle's television channel, along with a new police-backed program called Frontline Against Crime.
Everyone at the table talked about the latest developments. Ben, after days of nonstop work, had finally been ordered by Jameson to take some time off.
Clark was in a good mood too.
He'd revealed himself for his father's sake, helped crush a major wave of crime in New York, and somehow the whole thing had turned out about as well as it possibly could have.
A moment later Peter stumbled downstairs, rubbing at his already messy hair.
The reason he looked like that was simple.
He had kept Clark up half the night asking questions about Krypton and Kryptonians.
"Morning, Aunt May. Morning, Uncle Ben. Morning, invincible big brother Clark."
Of course, everyone in the house now knew Clark's hidden identity.
They just all politely avoided saying it out loud.
Clark didn't want his parents worrying. After all, they still didn't really know how strong he was. To them, he would always be the boy who came crashing into their lives and filled their home with joy.
Clark nodded, hauled the perpetually-late Peter along, and headed out to meet Mary Jane, Eddie, Gwen, and the others on the way to school.
The second he stepped onto campus, Clark was forced to appreciate the power of capitalism.
What had once been his weird little niche "S" symbol was suddenly everywhere.
Students were wearing shirts with it. Hoodies with it. Cheap knockoff accessories with it. The moment a mysterious, powerful figure showed up in real life, teenagers had apparently decided the most natural response was to buy merchandise.
Inside Clark's head, the little theater troupe sprang back into action.
The little devil, now wearing the loudest old-school Superman outfit imaginable, complete with flamboyant red cape, danced wildly through Clark's thoughts.
Woohoo! Look at the reaction from these mortals! This is how gods get treated! Clark, get up on a table, rip open your shirt, show them the S, and accept their worship! Tell them! I am Superman!
The little angel, now wearing reading glasses and clutching a book titled One Hundred Ways to Stay Humble, held on to the devil's cape with all his strength.
Don't do it! Clark! The tallest tree catches the strongest wind! Nick Fury's bald egg is absolutely watching us with satellites right now! We must maintain the nerd cover identity!
Clark mentally muted both of those useless performers.
He liked obscure things.
But if people wanted to use the symbol because it inspired them to do some good, he could live with that.
As long as nobody used it while doing evil.
And if they did, well...
Then he'd show them exactly what it looked like when judgment came screaming down from the sky.
A full week had passed, and Harry still hadn't shown up at school.
That was starting to feel wrong.
So Clark glanced at his brother and asked, "Where's Harry? Still not back today?"
The question immediately caught the attention of the others too.
Eddie, on the other hand, wore a baffled expression, clearly wondering who this Harry guy even was and when everyone else had apparently gotten acquainted with him.
After all, they had all seen what Harry looked like the last time he'd been around.
"I texted him this morning. He didn't answer," Peter said with a worried sigh. "I'm really starting to think something happened at home."
"Yeah," Clark said. "When I get a chance, I'll go check on him. Something big has to be happening."
While these high school kids kept busy worrying about all kinds of things—
Thousands of miles away, on the West Coast of the United States—
In a lavish mansion overlooking the beach in Malibu, California—
Tony Stark, the man behind a dozen recent headlines, had shut the world out completely and was busy working on his newest invention.