Inside a private OsCorp lab, Nolan held up two vials, one crimson and one amber, and examined them in the light.
"Looks like Peter's running a bit hot lately," he mused.
The vials contained Peter Parker's blood and urine.
The moment they were secured, Nolan and Dr. Connors had begun analyzing the samples unconcerned with the media frenzy still swirling around OsCorp. Public opinion didn't matter. Not to Nolan.
Ever since the OsCorp explosion, Nolan's name had found its way into government files and intelligence briefings. The anonymity was long gone.
But once he unlocked the mystery behind Peter's physiology, even just his spider sense, it would be worth it.
He handed the samples to Connors. "Break down the components."
Connors got to work, running a full bio-spectral scan. Within minutes, his eyebrows raised.
"There's... definitely something here. Some of Peter's genes show parallels to the enhanced spider fragments of cross-species DNA."
He studied the screen more closely. "Interestingly, it's bonded to his Y chromosome. That would make the mutation... hereditary."
"Is there any trace of the original spider strain?"
"No," Connors replied. "The originals died out. What we have now are descendant species offspring of Richard's genetically modified spiders. They've been crossbreeding ever since."
Nolan tapped a finger against the desk, thoughtful. "So, you're telling me these spiders carry Richard Parker's DNA?"
"Biologically speaking?" Connors nodded. "Yes. Peter shares significant genetic overlap with them."
Connors now understood the depth of what Richard had done he hadn't just tampered with arachnid DNA. He had infused his own genes, creating a spider strain that belonged to the Parker family.
Nolan stared at the gene sequences on-screen, thoughts racing.
Every concept he'd ever studied, CRISPR edits, lateral gene transfer, and neural splicing, flashed through his mind.
He started mapping out Richard's rationale.
"Richard knew about artificial superhumans. He was SHIELD. He knew Captain America existed. So when he began experimenting... his goal wasn't random.
"He wasn't just creating spiders."
"He was creating compatibility."
Nolan paced slowly. "He probably ran dozens of tests. Tried to infuse spider DNA directly into human subjects. But they couldn't handle it. So he made a workaround."
He pointed to the screen.
"Richard bred a spider with his own DNA, creating a hybrid species that carried traits only he could bond with. Then he left them in Peter's world, just waiting to bite."
Connors remained silent. He knew better than to interrupt Nolan during one of his moments.
"If I can pinpoint what Richard was targeting, if I can replicate it, I'll have the blueprint for tailored superhuman compatibility."
Nolan leaned in. "Run a full genetic overlay. Peter's blood, one of the spiders, and any viable spider egg samples you've got."
"We have plenty," Connors nodded. "They're monitored daily, and any that lay eggs are immediately tagged and chilled for preservation."
"Perfect. Cross-reference all three datasets."
A massive clap of thunder cracked the sky. The previously sunny New York skyline darkened under a blanket of storm clouds.
Inside a dimly lit cubicle, Max Dillon sat slumped at his desk.
No one had said a word.
He glanced at the clock one hour left until the end of his shift. Maybe someone would remember?
One by one, coworkers packed up and left. Someone muttered about the storm. Others didn't even say goodbye.
Max looked around at the empty room and sighed.
Every time the office had electrical issues, he was the guy they called.
Max, can you check the wiring? Max, mind fixing that breaker? He always said yes.
"Why is it... that I only matter when things go wrong?" he muttered, eyes welling up. "They use me when they need me. But today..."
"No one even remembers I exist."
His fists clenched. Bitterness building. Anger rising.
Then the door creaked open.
Max wiped his eyes and turned expecting trouble.
It was his supervisor.
The same one who always called him back to work, no matter the time of night.
Max braced himself for another demand. Another chore.
"Supervisor," he greeted tightly, forcing down his anger.
The man carried a plain white box.
"Norman Osborn asked me to bring this to you," the supervisor said. "He heard someone had a birthday. Said he didn't want the cake to go to waste."
"He said it was just a lucky coincidence. Here."
He handed Max the box.
Inside was a simple vanilla cake, topped with a single unlit candle.
"Also this," the supervisor added, pulling an envelope from his coat. "Five hundred bucks Norman's personal gift. Plus two grand for your recent overtime."
Max opened the envelope, hands trembling.
"Go home, kid. Celebrate. Count your blessings."
The supervisor walked away, muttering under his breath, "Wish the board remembered my birthday..."
Max remained frozen, cake in one hand, envelope in the other.
Slowly, he placed the cake on his desk.
"...Thank you, OsCorp," he whispered.
He lit the candle. Said a quiet prayer. Took a bite.
For the first time, he felt seen.
Later that night, Max logged into the internal company portal.
He found Norman Osborn's email.
Typed out a thank-you message.
Right as he clicked Send, he panicked What if I'm bothering him?
He reached for the cancel button.
DING! A new message popped up.
"Thank Superman, kid. Luck's on your side."
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