Nolan streaked across the sky, a blur against the wind.
But flight real flight was no easy feat.
Without a biological energy field to shield him, he was forced to rely on sheer physical resilience to withstand the brutal wind pressure.
His body buckled slightly with each shift in force, struggling to stabilize midair.
But his learning curve was fast.
Adapting quickly, Nolan adjusted his posture, flattening his body into a more aerodynamic form arms pinned close, legs aligned. Like a living missile.
The only problem: he had to cradle a secure case to his chest. It prevented him from striking the classic "Superman pose," but he made it work.
His speed surged. A blur across the skyline. A phantom slicing toward his destination.
Back at the chaotic launch event, Harry Osborn answered his phone, his voice edged with panic. The crowd had erupted angry, loud, and growing increasingly violent.
Protesters were screaming for OsCorp to shut down the product launch.
Fortunately, Klaw's security detail was holding the line for now.
"Hold them back. The boss is en route!" Harry said firmly.
"He won't make it in time!" the voice on the other end replied.
"He will. He's flying here himself."
"...Flying? You mean like, on his own?"
The confusion was clear.
Their company's aircraft couldn't make the trip in under 30 minutes. Their fastest drone was barely faster than a chopper.
"No aircraft. I mean he's flying. Personally. Now hold the damn line."
Harry ended the call, dazed. He hadn't processed what that really meant.
His father had always placed his faith in Nolan more than anyone else. Nolan had already stabilized Norman's genetic disease. Even Harry himself could suppress his inherited illness with a single Phoenix-2 injection.
That kind of healing... that power... was real.
Unlike S.H.I.E.L.D., who'd promised hope and delivered nothing.
Straightening his jacket, Harry composed himself.
Dozens of reporters swarmed in like sharks drawn to blood.
The shouting began instantly.
"Harry Osborn! Is it true OsCorp no longer belongs to your family?"
"No comment," Harry said smoothly. "One question per reporter. Next."
The previous reporter was shoved aside by a pretty brunette from the Penny Post.
"Harry these bandages and sprays you're selling, have they been properly tested? Who verified the science behind them? Or is this all just a gimmick?"
Harry smiled. "Our lead scientist is Dr. Curt Connors recognized worldwide for his contributions to regenerative biology. Every test has followed rigorous, ethical protocols. Our volunteers signed informed consent and were approved by the ethics board."
"But according to medical examiners," she countered, "one of your volunteers is already dead."
A blonde woman in business attire pushed forward, speaking rapid-fire like a machine gun.
"His name was Williams. The only breadwinner in his family. He lost his finger while working overtime in a steel mill. He has a wife and son. What does OsCorp plan to do for his family now that you've killed him?"
She knew everything about the man. She wasn't just reporting—she was building a narrative.
"You're assuming liability without evidence," Harry shot back. "There's no confirmation that our product caused his death. Medical reports suggest a pre-existing heart condition. You're dangerously close to defamation."
"I'm Christine from Vanity Press. If I receive a lawsuit from OsCorp, I'll wear it like a badge of honor. But that won't change the fact you killed Williams."
"Who said he's dead?"
Harry's response hit like a grenade.
Silence. The crowd froze.
Reporters exchanged confused glances. That wasn't the expected defense. Most would deny culpability. Not claim the man was alive.
"You'll see," Harry said calmly. "This isn't over."
The truth was he didn't know how close Nolan was. He just had to stall.
And then it got worse.
"Williams's wife is here!"
A woman burst through the barricades, screaming, "Murderers! You killed my husband!"
The mob picked up the chant:
"Murderers! Murderers!"
The collective roar of voices pounded like a tidal wave. Security buckled under the pressure.
A modified jeep slammed through the gates, barreling straight toward the crowd.
Loudspeakers blasted from its roof. "Move! MOVE! Let me through!"
Panic erupted. People scattered like sardines.
The vehicle plowed forward like a rampaging beast more war machine than the jeep. Security raised their weapons.
"Dammit! If it doesn't stop, shoot the tires!"
Harry's eyes widened. "They wouldn't—"
Gunfire echoed across the plaza. Bullets slammed into the jeep's windshield—then bounced off.
"They're shooting! OsCorp's killing civilians!"
People dove for cover. The air was chaos.
"Bulletproof glass," Harry muttered. "This was planned."
This wasn't random outrage. This was engineered.
Someone had sent that jeep here, knowing full well how it would play out.
Even that didn't work. The tires were armored military-grade. Every round pinged off uselessly.
The jeep didn't slow down.
A mechanical bull charging headfirst into OsCorp.
Harry took two steps back, heart pounding.
Where the hell is the boss?
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