The air in the interrogation room was static with tension as Jack's finger-strike whistled toward Norman Osborn's throat. But Norman wasn't the CEO of a multi-billion dollar tech giant for nothing; he was a pragmatist who fought dirty. Seeing the lethal intent in Jack's eyes, Norman didn't even bother to tuck his chin or raise a hand in defense. Instead, he leaned into the momentum, dropping his center of gravity and launching a vicious, bone-shattering kick aimed squarely at Jack's groin.
It was a move born of cold calculation. Norman knew his body, reinforced by the Goblin Formula, could take a hit to the windpipe and keep ticking. It would hurt, sure, but it wouldn't stop him. Jack, on the other hand, was still mostly a man inside a fancy suit. If that kick landed, all the high-tech fabric in the world might not be enough to save Jack's ability to walk—or his future family plans.
Jack felt the rush of air from the incoming boot and cursed under his breath. He wasn't a gambler, especially not with those kinds of stakes. He aborted his throat strike mid-extension, snapping his arm down in a desperate parry.
CRACK!
The impact sounded like a baseball bat hitting a side of beef. Jack's arm went instantly numb, a white-hot flash of pain radiating up to his shoulder as the tuxedo's internal dampeners screamed under the stress. He used the momentum to backflip away, his boots skidding across the floor as he created distance.
"Is that the best your 'high-tech' toys can do?" Norman spat, a manic grin stretching his face. "You're fast, Captain, but you're soft. You care about your skin. I don't."
Norman crouched, ready to spring again, his muscles coiled like steel springs. He was enjoying this. The adrenaline was washing away the fatigue of his earlier battle with the "Spiders." He felt invincible.
But Jack wasn't interested in a fair fight or a prolonged martial arts movie sequence. He was a cop who had seen too many "super-powered" types think they were above the law. He reached into his holster and pulled his sidearm in a motion so fluid it looked like a glitch in reality.
Norman didn't panic. He'd dodged bullets before. With his enhanced reflexes, he could practically see the trajectory of a barrel. He shifted his weight, preparing to weave through the gunfire and tear Jack's head off.
"Bang!"
Jack didn't just pull the trigger; he tilted the barrel at an impossible angle at the last microsecond. This wasn't standard police training. This was Gun Kata—the art of treating a firearm as a mathematical instrument of inevitable death.
The bullet didn't travel in a straight line. It seemed to catch an invisible current, curving through the air in a tight arc that bypassed Norman's instinctive dodge. Before the Green Goblin could even register that the math had changed, the lead projectile punched through his temple.
The back of Norman Osborn's head erupted in a spray of crimson and grey. The light left his eyes instantly. The man who wanted to rule New York through fear and science collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut, hitting the floor with a dull, final thud.
The room was silent for a beat. Then, the tension broke.
"Holy crap, Boss!" one of the younger officers shouted, his eyes wide as he stared at the corpse. "Did you see that? You called it! You knew exactly where he was going to jump. And that curve... since when do we carry 'Wanted' bullets?"
"Shut it, Smith," Jack barked, though he was secretly flexing his numb arm to get the feeling back. "Stop the fan-girling and start the cleanup. We've got a mess on our hands."
Jack looked down at the dead billionaire. There was no remorse, only a sense of professional completion. "You know the drill for the report. This high-tech perp escaped his restraints—which, by the way, were faulty equipment provided by a third party—and attempted to assassinate a ranking officer. Lethal force was the only option to prevent further loss of life. One of you 'heroically' took the shot. Understand?"
"Crystal clear, Captain," a senior sergeant nodded, already reaching for the paperwork. "Subordinate fired in defense of the commander. Unavoidable tragedy."
Jack nodded, satisfied. He had other things to worry about, like the group of girls they'd rescued earlier whose immigration status was currently tied up in a bureaucratic nightmare. "I'm heading out. The Immigration Office is moving at the speed of a snail. I need to go pull some strings before they get deported back into a war zone."
As he walked out of the precinct, shedding the tuxedo into its concealed form, Jack sent a quick, encrypted message to Huang Wen.
Back at the martial arts school, Huang Wen glanced at his phone and paused. A faint smile played on his lips. "Well, that's that. Norman Osborn is officially retired."
"Dead? Already?" Huang Wen muttered to himself, a bit surprised. In the original comics and movies, Norman was a recurring nightmare, a man who would die and come back ten times over while traumatizing Peter Parker for years. He'd expected a long, drawn-out saga of escapes and revenge plots. But this was the real world—or at least, a world where Jack didn't believe in "to be continued."
He looked over at Peter and Huang Liang. The two boys were still standing there looking like kids who had been caught drawing on the walls.
"Alright, you two," Huang Wen said, his voice softening. "Today was a mess, but you survived. Take it as a lesson. This is New York; it's a 'friendly neighborhood' until it isn't. Go get some rest, and for heaven's sake, stop underestimating your opponents."
"Thanks, Master," Huang Liang sighed in relief. Peter nodded eagerly, though his eyes were still a bit glazed from the day's intensity.
"Actually, Master," Huang Liang started, a spark of curiosity returning to his eyes. "Since we're done for the day... how is the 'ice cube' doing? Is the Captain finally joining the 21st century?"
Logan, who had been brooding in the corner, suddenly straightened up. His animalistic senses caught a name he hadn't heard in a long time. "Steve? You're talking about Steve Rogers? You mean to tell me the Boy Scout is actually alive?"
Huang Wen looked at Logan with a teasing glint. "Yes, Logan. Why are you so surprised? I thought you were the one who knew everything about the good old days."
"Don't play with me, Boss," Logan said, stepping closer, his hands twitching as if he wanted to pop his claws just to vent the nervous energy. "Steve and I... we go back. To the trenches. You're saying he didn't die in that crash?"
"He was just taking a very long nap in the Arctic," Huang Wen explained. "But I have to wonder, how did a 'Wild Beast' like you ever get along with a guy who's basically a walking moral compass?"
Logan gave a gruff, slightly embarrassed chuckle. "Opposites attract, I guess. Besides, Steve had a way of making you want to be better than you were. But... wait." Logan's expression suddenly turned somber. "If Steve is back, what about Peggy? I haven't seen Carter in decades. She was the light of his life. If he wakes up now, she'll be... well, she won't be the girl he remembers."
Huang Wen felt a slight pang of sympathy. "I almost forgot about the Peggy Carter situation. If we wake him up now, she's still alive, though quite old. I wish I had a 'Youth Potion' in my inventory to help them out, but for now, the best we can do is give them a chance to say goodbye properly."
"Take me to him," Logan demanded, his voice low and serious. "I need to see him with my own eyes."
Huang Wen didn't argue. With a wave of his hand, the space around them shimmered. Logan, Huang Liang, and Peter Parker were caught in a swirl of light, and a heartbeat later, they were standing in the sterile, high-tech environment of Base One.
In the center of the room sat a specialized medical pod. Through the reinforced glass, the unmistakable profile of Steve Rogers was visible. He looked exactly the same as the day he went into the water—young, strong, and frozen in a moment of ultimate sacrifice.
"Steve..." Logan whispered, stepping up to the pod. For a man who had lived over a century, seeing a familiar face from his past was like finding a lighthouse in a storm. He felt a rare sense of peace. At least he wasn't the only ghost left in this world.
His mind wandered to his own family. He thought of Victor—Sabretooth. His half-brother had been conspicuously absent during the recent mutant conflicts. No sign of him at Stryker's base, no word of him in the underworld. Logan wondered if Victor was watching from the shadows, or if he, too, was waiting for his own moment to crash back into Logan's life.