Conference room, Osborn Industries Tower, Manhattan.
A massive oval conference table sat beneath recessed lights, the Osborn "O" emblazoned in polished steel on the far wall. Twelve directors in tailored suits surrounded it, their faces carved into masks of calculation and quiet hostility.
At the head of the table sat Norman Osborn.
The man who had once dominated the covers of Fortune and Forbes—hailed as the ruthless architect behind Oscorp's meteoric rise in advanced weapons systems, chemical engineering, and genetic research—now looked gaunt. His skin was pale, his eyes bloodshot from sleepless nights spent trying to contain the fallout from Dr. Curt Connors' disaster.
He felt like a defendant awaiting sentencing.
And these directors—men he had handpicked, cultivated, and politically maneuvered into power—were the jury and executioners.
"Norman," Chief Director Stone began coldly, sliding a financial report across the table, "Dr. Curt Connors' cross-species genetic therapy project has collapsed in spectacular fashion."
The pages detailed a catastrophic loss.
"Three hundred and seventy million dollars in R&D allocations—gone. Military contracts suspended. The Defense Department has already issued an inquiry regarding the biological weapons implications of the Lizard incident."
Norman's chest rose and fell sharply.
"It was a controlled research accident," he said through clenched teeth. "Connors' work was based on legitimate regenerative science. The reptilian DNA splice was intended to restore limb regrowth—exactly what the Pentagon wanted after the Iraq contracts. We were one breakthrough away—"
"An accident?" Stone cut him off sharply. "A three-meter-tall reptilian humanoid rampaged through Midtown High School. Students were nearly exposed to an airborne mutagenic serum. The NYPD and Spider-Man had to contain it."
Murmurs rippled through the board.
"The Daily Bugle has been running editorials for three days straight," another director added. "They're calling us irresponsible corporate madmen."
"Our stock plummeted thirty-two percent in twenty-four hours," Robert—heavyset, perpetually sweating—added with a sneer. "Investors are panicking."
He leaned forward, voice dripping with mock sympathy.
"And isn't it true, Norman, that your son Harry attends Midtown High? You funded a cross-species weapons experiment that nearly turned your own boy into collateral damage."
Norman's fingers whitened against the polished table.
"Gentlemen," he said slowly, voice shaking with contained fury, "Oscorp—Osborn Industries—exists because of me. I built it from a modest chemical supplier into a global leader in military R&D and genetic engineering. Without my vision, none of you would be sitting in those chairs."
"That was then," Stone replied flatly.
"The board has already voted."
A document was shoved in front of Norman.
"Twelve votes to one."
Silence.
"You are hereby removed as CEO and Chairman, effective immediately. Pending investigations into reckless endangerment and misuse of company funds are under review. A transitional executive team will assume control."
Norman stared at the words.
Removed.
Replaced.
Erased.
"You ungrateful parasites," he whispered.
"You jeopardized the company chasing unstable super-human enhancement fantasies," Stone said. "This isn't the Cold War anymore. The government doesn't want another Captain America project gone rogue."
"Clean out your office by nine tomorrow morning," Robert added. "Quietly. No press."
The conference room door shut with a heavy finality.
The silence afterward was suffocating.
Thirty years.
Norman Osborn had clawed his way to the top of the corporate food chain. He had navigated hostile takeovers, government contracts, and shadow deals with the Pentagon. He had buried competitors and crushed dissent.
And now he had been discarded like defective stock.
His hands trembled.
With a sudden snarl, he seized a crystal ashtray and hurled it at the reinforced window.
"Bang—!"
The bulletproof glass held, spiderweb cracks radiating outward.
"Damn you… all of you!"
His roar echoed through the empty executive floor.
Sublevel Three — Restricted Research Division.
Norman stormed into the underground laboratory.
Workers were already there.
Connors' cross-species research station had been sealed. Cryogenic gene vaults were powered down. Oscorp technicians were cataloging and dismantling multi-million-dollar spectrometry arrays and gene splicers.
"Stop!" Norman shouted, shoving aside a technician.
"This facility answers to me!"
"Mr. Osborn," the supervisor said carefully, holding up an authorization form. "By order of the board, all high-risk bio-enhancement projects are suspended. Equipment is being confiscated pending federal review."
Norman snatched the paper and tore it apart.
"Get out!"
The workers exchanged uneasy looks—but without their former CEO's authority behind him, they eventually withdrew, clearly intending to return with security.
The lab fell silent.
Norman stood alone among half-dismantled dreams.
His breathing grew ragged.
He overturned a microscope.
Glass shattered.
"Connors failed because he lacked resolve," Norman hissed. "Because Spider-Man interfered."
The name burned on his tongue.
Spider-Man.
That masked vigilante had interfered with Oscorp shipments before. Sabotaged experimental weapons deals. Publicly humiliated corporate security.
A child in a costume.
Another beaker smashed against the wall.
Thirty years of empire—and now reduced to this.
Then his gaze drifted deeper into the lab.
Toward a reinforced biohazard safe.
Unlike Connors' reptilian mutagen, this project had been Norman's personal obsession.
The Human Enhancement Formula.
Reverse-engineered from fragmented Cold War super-soldier data, experimental gamma-adrenal stimulants, and proprietary neural accelerators.
It wasn't finished.
Animal trials had demonstrated immense increases in strength, reflexes, and accelerated cellular regeneration.
They had also demonstrated catastrophic psychosis in 60% of subjects.
Norman approached the safe.
He hesitated only once before entering the code.
The lock disengaged.
Inside rested a single vial of shimmering emerald serum.
Not reptilian.
Not cross-species.
Pure human enhancement.
Or so he had told himself.
He picked up the vial. The liquid glowed faintly under the sterile lab lighting.
"Control," he whispered. "That's all it ever was. Control."
If the board thought him unstable…
If the world thought him finished…
Then he would transcend them all.
He loaded the serum into an injection system designed for full systemic infusion.
"Success… or evolution."
The needle pierced his vein.
The serum entered his bloodstream.
For several seconds, nothing happened.
Then—
Agony.
Not like insects crawling beneath his skin.
Like his very DNA was being rewritten.
Norman collapsed, body convulsing violently.
His muscles swelled as adrenal output spiked beyond human tolerance. Neural synapses fired at hyper-accelerated speeds. His endocrine system flooded with unstable catalysts.
His skin flushed an unhealthy green as capillaries ruptured and reformed.
His vision fractured.
And in the darkness of his mind—
Laughter.
Low.
Cruel.
Unhinged.
"You always feared weakness, Norman…"
The voice was not external.
It was him.
Stripped of restraint.
Freed from conscience.
"Finally… I'm free."
Norman's eyes snapped open.
The timid desperation was gone.
In its place burned manic clarity.
His lips curled upward into a predatory grin.
"Poor, pitiful Norman," he murmured.
He rose to his feet effortlessly, strength humming through every fiber of his being.
"They took your company."
His reflection in a shattered glass panel stared back—eyes tinged green, expression feral.
"But they forgot something."
He began to laugh.
Not the measured chuckle of a corporate magnate.
But sharp. High. Unstable.
"They created a monster."
And in that underground lab, amid broken glass and abandoned science—
The Green Goblin was born.