"Sir, Norman Osborn has changed his mind. He's contacted the military and plans to use the spider venom to enhance soldiers' abilities."
The familiar voice of Peter Parker came through the audio — it was Richard Parker's recording.
There was a pause. "In that case, the mission is canceled. Withdraw immediately," another voice said — cold and detached.
"No… Norman's network has locked onto me…" Richard's panicked voice cut off as the audio ended.
Harry copied the three files from the USB drive into Peter's computer, then pulled it out and slipped it back into his pocket.
Peter sat there dazed, lost in thought.
"Peter," Harry said softly.
"Huh?" Peter looked up, his expression blank.
"Sorry, Harry… I didn't know. I really didn't know that my father was… a spy," Peter stammered, guilt flooding his voice.
"Peter," Harry said, resting his hands on Peter's shoulders. "I didn't show you this to condemn your father — and he wasn't a spy." He let go and continued, "After the project failed, my father, furious, investigated the agency your father worked for. But what he found made him stop. It was an enormous government organization, and the only note he left behind was its name — along with a warning: never to oppose it."
"What was it called?" Peter asked quickly. The word father was a wound that never quite healed — and hearing it always made him ache with longing.
"Its name…" Harry turned toward the window, looking out at the street under the night sky. "It's a mouthful. Homeland Strategic Defense, Offensive, and Logistics Support Bureau."
"Homeland Strategic Defense… Offensive and Logistics Support Bureau," Peter repeated slowly. "Yeah… that's definitely a mouthful."
Harry paced the room, then stopped in front of Peter's wardrobe.
Ding.
A translucent screen appeared before him, displaying:
An unowned item detected: Venom Suit (60). Convert to points?
"No conversion," Harry thought silently.
He scanned the things in front of him, moving aside a small box on the floor. After using the system many times, Harry had learned its detection limits. To record or search for something, it had to be within sight — within ten meters for a person, and one meter for an item.
Sure enough, nestled in the box was a brown leather briefcase — and something dark and sticky clung faintly to its edge.
"This was your father's, right?" Harry asked, squatting down and carefully pulling out the briefcase. He also took a transparent synthetic bag from his jacket — the kind that sealed tight once closed.
"Yeah," Peter said, glancing at it. "He only left that briefcase behind. Nothing else." His voice softened with a trace of sadness.
By now, Harry had already secured the writhing black substance — the Venom parasite — inside the special bag.
"Peter, don't look so down. You still have me as a friend. And who knows? Maybe your father's still alive, just… unable to come back for some reason." Harry spoke gently.
"Yeah… I'm okay, Harry," Peter said, forcing a small smile.
"Peter! Harry! Dinner's ready — I made barbecue rolls!" Aunt May's cheerful voice called from outside, breaking the heavy air.
"Okay, Aunt May!" Harry replied quickly.
"Come on, Peter," he said with a grin, heading out first.
Though Aunt May's barbecue rolls weren't quite as amazing as Peter had promised, the dinner felt warm and comforting — the only real warmth Harry had felt since arriving in this world.
After saying goodbye to Peter and Aunt May, Harry walked alone through the cool moonlit streets toward the old Osborn estate.
Tat-tat-tat-tat!
A burst of gunfire echoed from a nearby alley. Harry stopped abruptly as a bullet whizzed past his face.
"What a chaotic country," he muttered, turning his head toward the sound and stepping into the alley.
"Tat-tat-tat!"
"Kill him!"
"Ugh—"
"Damn it!"
"Where did he go?!"
"Run! That guy's Frank!"
The shouts grew louder. Through the flickering streetlight, Harry finally caught a glimpse of the man the gangsters were yelling about.
"Could it be… the Punisher?" Harry thought, dodging another stray bullet.
The gunfire soon stopped. One by one, the gangsters fell, leaving only silence.
The man holstered his weapon, picked up a long black coat from the ground, shook it out, and threw it over his shoulders. He started toward the street — and immediately spotted Harry standing there.
He didn't care. There were always idiots who thought they could play hero.
Harry watched the man — Frank Castle — approach. When he came within arm's reach, something in Harry's instincts flared. He suddenly sidestepped, narrowly avoiding Frank's straight punch.
"Hey! What are you doing?!" Harry shouted, dodging another swing before countering with a quick jab to Frank's abdomen, knocking him back several steps.
"System, record the person in front of me," Harry thought.
Ding.
The screen flashed:
Name: Frank Castle
Age: 35
Condition: Healthy
Abilities: None
Item: Beretta 92F (10)
Frank regained his balance, pulled the pistol from his waistband, and leveled it at Harry.
Harry's eyes flicked to the weapon. "Let's see what you're worth," he muttered.
He sprinted forward just as Frank fired. Bullets tore through the air — but Harry had already run up the wall using electrostatic grip, flipping over and landing behind Frank. He caught Frank's wrist mid-aim, twisted sharply until the gun slipped free, then kicked him hard in the ribs.
Ding.
Unowned item detected: Beretta 92F (10). Convert to points?
"Nice gun," Harry said lightly. "Ten points… not bad."
The pistol vanished, replaced by a small increase in his system total.
"Who the hell are you?" Frank demanded, glaring as he got back on his feet. His instincts told him the thin young man before him wasn't trained — his power came from something inhuman.
"Ah, sorry, I haven't introduced myself." Harry smiled politely. "Harry. Harry Osborn. You've probably heard of me."
"Frank Castle," Frank said curtly.
"I know. I've heard of you, too," Harry replied, pulling a sleek black business card from his pocket. Silver letters gleamed faintly under the streetlight — the Osborne Industries logo and a single phone number.
"If you ever need me, consider this a trade for your gun," Harry said, handing him the card. Then he picked up another pistol from a fallen gangster and walked toward the alley's exit.
"Figures," he muttered, weighing it in his hand — but the system stayed silent. No points this time.
So, it only worked on weapons that truly belonged to heroes or villains — like Peter's suit or Frank's gun.
"Looks like it's time to test Max's suit," Harry thought.
By the time he reached the Osborne Building, its lights were still glowing faintly. Entering quietly, Harry approached the lab and placed the sealed Venom sample onto the table.
"This one's for Dr. Connors," he murmured.