The Audi R8 glided through the Friday rush-hour traffic like it was cutting butter. Harry was at the wheel, one hand draped casually over the leather, the other tapping a rhythm on the shifter. The engine was a low, constant purr. Outside, Midtown Manhattan was a blur of honking cabs, neon signs bleeding into the early December twilight, and people rushing for trains, for drinks, for the weekend.
I was slouched in the passenger seat, the cool, supple leather creaking under me. My phone buzzed insistently in the pocket of my jacket another notification, probably from the Candy Smash servers, or maybe Gwen. I ignored it. This was guy time. Harry time. After everything, it still felt surreal sometimes.
The destination was a warehouse in Long Island City, a ten-minute drive through the tunnel away from the glittering chaos of the island. I'd bought it last week. Four-point-two million, cash. The money moved through a labyrinth of shell corporations Gaia had spun up, untraceable. The down payment on a dream I'd had since I was a kid staring at posters of Valve and Blizzard on my bedroom wall. Obsidian Works. It wasn't just a name on a business plan anymore.
Harry took his eyes off the road for a second, that familiar, knowing smirk playing on his lips. His green eyes, sharp and intelligent, flicked from the traffic to me.
Harry: So. You and Gwen Stacy.
It wasn't a question. It was a statement, loaded with implication. I couldn't help the grin that spread across my face.
Peter: What gave it away? The fact I haven't stopped smiling for a week?
He snorted, cutting smoothly around a lumbering delivery truck.
Harry: Try the fact she changed her profile pic to that arcade selfie. You know the one. You've both got cotton candy stuck to your faces, you're mid-laugh, and you look like a couple of dorks who just won the jackpot on Skee-Ball. Mary Jane sent me a screenshot with about fifty heart emojis. The girl's not exactly subtle, Parker.
A warm flush crept up my neck. I scratched the back of it, looking out the window at the passing brick buildings.
Peter: Okay, okay. You got me. It's… yeah. It's official. Since the picnic in Central Park. She's… she's Gwen, you know? She's brilliant. She's funny. She can quote entire passages of advanced biochemistry textbooks and then beat me at air hockey. And yeah, the picture's cute. Her idea.
Harry let out a full, booming laugh, the sound rich and genuine in the close confines of the car. He shook his head, a lock of his perfectly styled hair falling across his forehead.
Harry: 'Cute'? Pete, you're practically radiating. The genius hermit, the king of the solo all-nighter… tamed by the police captain's daughter. I love it. It's poetic. Her dad ever give you the full Stacy glare?
I chuckled, the memory of Captain Stacy's steely-eyed assessment in the hospital hallway after the Vulture takedown still fresh.
Peter: Once or twice. But I think I'm wearing him down. He didn't shoot me when he saw me kissing Gwen
Harry's smirk turned into a grin of approval.
Harry: Smart play. Family's everything. You secure the home front first. Speaking of empires… fifty million downloads? For Candy Smash? That's not just blowing up, man. That's a detonation.
I pulled out my phone, the screen lighting up with the real-time dashboard. Green graphs climbing, numbers ticking upward.
Peter: Hit it yesterday. Servers are screaming. We peaked at 2.2 million people playing at the same time. Lifetime revenue just crossed eighty-seven million. My laptop sounds like a jet engine trying to keep up. The bedroom-studio era is officially over. Obsidian Works needs a real home. Not a basement. A headquarters.
He glanced over, his expression a mix of pride and the casual acceptance that came from being raised in a billion-dollar empire. This was small-scale to him, but he got it.
Harry: Told you that tile-matching mechanic was crack. You built a better mousetrap. And you're buying the building outright? No mortgage, no board? That's a power move.
Peter: Clean title. Permits are fast-tracked. But Harry… the reason any of this is even possible right now…
I trailed off, the gratitude feeling too big for the car. He'd done so much.
Harry waved a dismissive hand, his focus on taking the exit for Long Island City, the iconic skyline shrinking in the rearview mirror.
Harry: Don't start. I had your back. That's what this is. Last week, I set up the corporate structure. Shell companies layered through my personal trusts, not Oscorp's. The money routes through the Caymans—clean, ghost-level. Hired the firm I use for my side projects. They filed the LLC, built the tax shields, locked down the IP for Candy Smash and any sequels. Called in a marker with the city planning commission. Warehouse is now officially zoned for commercial tech development. No red tape.
He paused, downshifting as we entered the quieter, grittier grid of Long Island City.
Harry: I also fronted the initial build-out. Two million. Wired it from a dummy venture capital fund I keep for… fun. Consider it an angel investment. The contractors have been in there all week. Soundproofed offices for your devs. A server room that's ready for whatever zero-point energy hookup you're dreaming up. I even put a gym in the back. Gotta keep the talent happy, right? The whole thing is a ghost. IRS can't see it. Oscorp definitely can't. It's yours. One hundred percent.
I just stared at him. The scale of it, the forethought, the sheer, unasked-for generosity… it was overwhelming.
Peter: Harry… man. The shells, the lawyers, the two mil… you didn't have to do all that. That's… that's a lot.
He shrugged, pulling the Audi into the newly paved lot of a squat, three-story brick building. It was unassuming, solid. A chain-link gate swung open automatically—he'd synced the remote to my phone already.
Harry: You'd do the same for me. Hell, you already have. That Candy Smash prototype? I showed it to a guy in Singapore. He licensed a version for the Asian market. Made five hundred thousand. This… this is just me reinvesting. My dad, the board… they don't need to know about my personal playpen. This stays between us.
I nodded, my throat tight. In the quiet of my own mind, a darker, parallel memory whispered: Comics Harry. Green Goblin. Poisoned by legacy, obsessed with destroying Peter, with taking everything. I shoved the thought down, hard. This wasn't that Harry. This was my friend. My brother, in every way that mattered. Maybe the threads of that old, tragic fate had truly been cut.
Peter: Seriously, man. I won't forget this.
Harry killed the engine and turned to look at me, his usually playful eyes dead serious for a moment.
Harry: Family, Pete. Not the one you're born with. The one you choose. Now come on. Let's see the place. I had them mock up a neon sign for 'Obsidian Works.' Your call if it's too much.
We got out, the cold air sharp in our lungs. The building loomed, potential radiating from its brickwork. He led the way to the new, heavy glass front doors—another of his touches.
The lobby was a vast space of polished concrete floors, echoing slightly. A sleek, curved reception desk stood empty, waiting for a nameplate. The walls were primed white, a blank canvas for logos and art. It smelled of fresh paint, new drywall, and pure, untamed possibility.
Harry gestured like a game show host.
Harry: Tour starts now. First floor: Quality Assurance. Twenty testing stations, sound-dampened booths, a dedicated lab for hardware compatibility. Second floor: Development. Open plan, modular desks, more whiteboards than a university. Break room's got a full kitchen, and I threw in a couple of arcade cabinets—a Pac-Man and a Street Fighter II. Gotta have priorities.
He led me to a shiny new elevator, pressing the button for two.
Harry: Top floor is your domain. Corner office with a killer view of the East River. Server room is on its own climate-controlled sub-level, direct fiber optic backbone. You'll have gigabit speeds for days.
The doors slid open onto the second floor. It was a wide, open space, flooded with afternoon light from massive, industrial-style windows. Rows of empty, high-end ergonomic chairs and adjustable standing desks stretched into the distance. I could feel it. The future energy of the place. The clack of mechanical keyboards, the low hum of intense concentration, the inevitable pizza boxes stacking up during a crunch.
Peter: This is perfect. I graduate in May. I want this place humming by then, so I can manage remotely. Pop in for big meetings, creative summits. But I don't want to be a full-time babysitter.
Harry leaned against one of the desks, crossing his arms.
Harry: Smart. You're the visionary. You build the universe; you hire people to run the country. I've already got a recruiter on retainer. She's lined up fifteen devs for interviews next week. Mid-to-senior level. Unity experts, some Unreal Engine veterans from studios that downsized. Competitive salaries, equity options for the leads. This thing can be self-sustaining from day one.
I walked to the window, placing a hand on the cool glass. The view was of other industrial buildings, water towers, and in the distance, the metallic gleam of the river.
Peter: What's next after Candy Smash? You thinking sequel? New IP?
I turned back to him.
Peter: Both. Candy Smash 2 needs to be a revolution, not an evolution. Future AR integration so you can solve puzzles on your kitchen table. But I've also got notes for a new thing. An open-world puzzle adventure. Metroidvania meets Myst. But the key is the team. I hire a killer lead developer, a solid operations manager, set the milestones, and let them run. Bonuses for hitting targets. No micromanaging.
In my head, the logical part whispered: You could have Gaia simulate the entire development process. Perfect code, instant optimization. It could run this place with three people and an AI. But that wasn't the point. The dream wasn't just to make money or even to make games. It was to build something. With people. To have a studio. To do it the human way, even if I had to be a little more than human to get it started.
Harry was nodding along, following my vision.
Harry: Lead dev… I've got a shortlist. Three names. All looking for a place to plant a flag, not just collect a paycheck. For ops manager, there's an ex-Riot Games producer. Owed me a favor after I helped his kid get into a good school. He's looking for a new challenge. You'll be in good hands.
Peter: And you? What's your cut in all this, Harry? The equity split?
He pushed off the desk, a casual, easy motion.
Harry: Silent partner. Ten percent. Vesting over five years. That way, my interests are aligned with the company's growth, but I'm not on any paperwork. It keeps everything clean.
Peter: That's… more than generous. You're sure Oscorp won't come sniffing? Your dad's lawyers are like bloodhounds.
A shadow, so faint I might have imagined it, passed behind Harry's eyes. Then it was gone, replaced by absolute certainty.
Harry: The firewall is ironclad, Pete. My dad is neck-deep in a boardroom civil war over his new biotech pivot. He's got bigger problems. This is my money, my project. Our project.
Our project. The words settled something in me. The ghost of the Green Goblin receded, silenced by the concrete reality of the friend in front of me.
Peter: Okay. Then let's seal the deal. Beers after this? Celebrate fifty million downloads?
Harry's grin was back, bright and real.
Harry: You're buying. Now come on. One more floor. Time to see your throne room.
The top floor was different. Softer. Plush carpet underfoot, sound-absorbing panels on the walls. A modern, open lounge area with low leather couches and a massive flat-screen. A glass-walled conference room. And at the end, behind a floor-to-ceiling window that framed the Manhattan skyline like a living painting, was the office. A single, beautiful desk of reclaimed wood. A high-backed chair. Empty bookshelves waiting for trophies, for concept art, for the clutter of creation.
I walked in, the city laid out at my feet. My heart was pounding, but it was a good pound. The pound of a starting gun.
Peter: Harry… this is it. The start of everything. Thank you.
He stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, his arms crossed. He wasn't smirking anymore. He just looked… satisfied.
Harry: To empires, Parker.
We bumped fists, the gesture simple, solid. Outside, the winter sun dipped low, painting the skyline in streaks of orange and purple. The future wasn't just wide open. It was right here, in this room, in this building, in this partnership. And for the first time in a long time, maybe ever, it felt completely, unshakably real.