Norman's been gone for six days. No calls, no emails, no appearances at Oscorp. The official story—the one Bernard tells anyone who asks—is that he's on an unplanned retreat at our upstate property. Standard CEO behavior, apparently. Taking time to contemplate the company's future direction.
But I know better.
I've been expecting this since I saw the security footage from the lab, since I watched him break his restraints and murder those scientists. The moment the Goblin emerged.
"Still no sign of him, sir?" Bernard asks as he places my coffee on the desk. Norman's desk, technically. I've been working from his office the past two days, a calculated move to project continuity to the executive team.
"Nothing." I scan through the morning reports on my tablet. "How many calls from Reynolds today?"
"Three before nine. He's becoming rather insistent about speaking with your father directly."
John Reynolds, Norman's right-hand man and loyal attack dog. His increasing persistence tells me he suspects something's wrong. He's not the only one getting nervous. The board meeting scheduled for tomorrow won't be delayed again without serious questions being raised.
"It's time, Bernard." I set down the tablet. "Initiate Protocol Goblin."
His expression remains neutral, but I catch the slight tensing of his shoulders. He knows what this means. We've been preparing this contingency since I first recognized the signs of Norman's transformation.
"Very good, sir. I'll begin immediately."
As Bernard withdraws to set things in motion, I turn to the wall of monitors displaying Oscorp's various operations. Weapons development. Biotech research. Advanced materials. The empire Norman built—now compromised by his descent into madness.
The protocol begins with surveillance. Within an hour, Bernard has compiled reports of unexplained incidents that match the Goblin's potential behavioral pattern: a research facility break-in where nothing was apparently stolen, a military contractor whose security system was mysteriously disabled, a small explosion at a chemical storage warehouse.
Norman's gathering resources. Building something.
By afternoon, I've convened an emergency meeting of trusted division heads—people whose loyalty I've personally verified, who value Oscorp's future over Norman's ego. Dr. Martinez from materials science. Dr. Warren from biotech. Five others who've shown support for my vision of the company's evolution.
"What I'm about to tell you doesn't leave this room," I begin, after security scans confirm we're not being recorded. "My father has experienced a severe psychological break, triggered by self-experimentation with the Prometheus formula."
I show them sanitized footage—enough to convey the danger without revealing the full Goblin transformation. Their reactions range from shock to grim resignation. Several have noticed Norman's deteriorating stability over recent months.
"The board meeting tomorrow will determine Oscorp's immediate future," I continue. "Norman is clearly in no condition to lead, but there are factions who would use this situation to push their own agendas—agendas that could destroy what we've built."
"Reynolds and his people," Dr. Warren says, voicing what everyone's thinking.
"Exactly. They'll move to install an interim CEO from their faction, likely as a puppet while they loot Oscorp's most valuable research."
Martinez leans forward. "What do you need from us?"
"Your support at the board meeting. Testimony regarding the company's direction and the success of our diversification strategy. And courage—because making a stand against Reynolds won't be without consequences."
By evening, Protocol Goblin's surveillance network has identified additional incidents bearing Norman's signature. Three more facilities breached. A private airfield reporting unusual activity. And most concerning—a weapons testing range where guards reported seeing something flying at high speed after hours.
The glider. He's already built the glider.
I spend the night reviewing dossiers on every board member, identifying leverage points and vulnerabilities. Reynolds has four solid votes in his pocket. I have five committed to me. That leaves five undecided—the battleground for tomorrow's corporate war.
Morning arrives with news that pushes my timeline forward: Dr. Mendel, the only survivor from Norman's transformation incident, has died in his hospital bed. "Complications from his injuries," according to the official report. The timing is too convenient to be coincidence.
Norman is tying up loose ends.
The board meeting is a carefully orchestrated battle. I arrive early, positioning allies strategically around the table. Reynolds enters with his faction, his confident smirk faltering slightly when he sees me in Norman's chair.
"That seat is occupied," he says coldly.
"Not anymore." I don't stand, a deliberate show of authority. "Please, everyone, let's begin. We have serious matters to discuss."
Reynolds remains standing. "We do nothing until Norman arrives. I spoke with him last night—"
"No, you didn't." I cut him off flatly. "My father hasn't communicated with anyone in six days. If you received a call, it wasn't from Norman Osborn."
Murmurs ripple through the room. Reynolds' face reddens. "What exactly are you implying?"
"I'm not implying anything. I'm stating facts." I activate the room's display, showing the security footage from Norman's lab. "This is what happened to my father six days ago."
The footage plays, drawing gasps as Norman breaks free, attacks the scientists, and disappears into a secondary lab where the camera view ends. I've edited it carefully—showing enough to establish Norman's dangerous instability without revealing his full transformation.
"This is... this can't be authentic," Reynolds protests, though his expression betrays him.
"The timestamp and security signature are genuine," confirms our head of cybersecurity, one of my allies. "This happened in Sublevel 3B last Tuesday evening."
I stand now, commanding the room's attention. "My father has been experimenting on himself for months with the Prometheus formula. The neural and psychological side effects were documented and ignored. What you've just witnessed is the result—a psychological break that has left Norman Osborn dangerous and unstable."
"Then where is he now?" asks one of the undecided board members.
"Unknown. But given his condition and the violence already demonstrated, we must consider him a threat to himself and others." I pause, letting that sink in. "Including Oscorp."
What follows is corporate warfare at its most brutal. Reynolds throws everything he has—questioning the footage's authenticity, suggesting I've fabricated evidence to stage a coup, even implying I've done something to Norman myself. I counter each attack calmly, presenting financial data showing how my divisions have outperformed traditional sectors, outlining a clear vision for Oscorp's future that builds on Norman's foundation while evolving beyond weapons and military contracts.
The tide turns when Dr. Warren presents medical analysis of Norman's deteriorating condition over the past months. Then Martinez details how my leadership has already transformed Oscorp's materials division into the company's fastest-growing sector.
Reynolds makes his final, desperate play: "This company belongs to Norman Osborn. When—not if—he returns, how will you explain this betrayal to your father?"
I meet his gaze directly, allowing just enough of Batman's intensity to show through Harry Osborn's corporate facade. "Norman Osborn no longer exists, John. And if whatever he's become returns to threaten this company or its people, I'll handle it personally."
The vote is 10-4 in my favor. Reynolds and his three loyalists storm out, already planning their counterattack. Security will clear their offices before they reach the lobby.
By afternoon, I stand before a forest of microphones and camera lenses, delivering my first public statement as Oscorp's new CEO.
My narrative is carefully constructed, but perfect.
Norman Osborn, suffering from undisclosed health issues, has taken an indefinite leave of absence. His son, already demonstrating leadership within the company, steps up to ensure stability and continued innovation.
Chess, not checkers.
"In a world where companies like Stark Industries are redefining their purpose," I tell the assembled press, "Oscorp will not be left behind. We will diversify beyond traditional contracts while maintaining our commitment to security. We will pursue growth in emerging markets while strengthening our New York roots. And we will prioritize ethical innovation that improves lives, not just profit margins."
Behind the scenes, Protocol Goblin continues unfolding. Security personnel with questionable loyalty to Norman—dismissed. Research into Prometheus—secured and compartmentalized. Surveillance systems across the city—recalibrated to detect Norman's unique biosignature. The Cave—upgrading weapons systems specifically designed to counter the Goblin's abilities.
.........
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....
That night, my patrol takes me through Hell's Kitchen, specifically the abandoned meat-packing district on West 14th. My intel shows the Bratva have set up operations in the old Gansevoort Market building – one of Fisk's properties they snatched up after I dismantled his empire.
They love hiring Russians man, goodness gracious.
I perch on the water tower across the street, watching through thermal imaging as twelve armed men guard what my intelligence confirms is a weapons cache destined for distribution across the five boroughs. Military-grade hardware that would escalate the turf war brewing across the city.
Yeah no bitch, not in my city.
I wait until the rain starts – a proper New York downpour that drowns out ambient noise and reduces visibility. Perfect hunting conditions.
Plus, getting punched while wet hurts more. Double the damage.
Do I even have to say what happened next...
I cut the building's power first. And on que, they scramble like rodents.
"Shitty fucking breakers!" someone barks in Russian.
Two men split off, flashlights cutting through the darkness. I drop silently behind them and the first man doesn't even get a chance to scream, my fist crushes his larynx with a precise strike. As he crumples, I grab the second by his jacket collar and smash his face into the concrete pillar beside us. The crunch of his orbital bone giving way is lost in a crash of thunder. Perfect timing, some would say.
Two down. Ten to go.
"Dimitri? Olav?" A voice calls out in heavily accented English.
I don't bother with the rafters. Don't need to hide anymore. I step directly into their flashlight beams, letting them see me fully. Ten hardened Bratva soldiers, each armed to the teeth. They freeze for just a heartbeat.
That's all I need.
I cross the twenty feet between us before their trigger fingers can even twitch. The first man goes flying across the warehouse from a casual backhand, his body crashing through a wooden crate thirty feet away. The second raises his assault rifle—I grab the barrel and crush it in my fist like it's made of aluminum foil, then headbutt him hard enough that his skull fractures with a sound like a baseball bat hitting a watermelon.
The others open fire. The bullets strike my armor and exposed parts of my suit alike. A few actually sting. I smile beneath the cowl. Getting that serum was the best decision I've ever made.
I grab the nearest shooter by his tac-vest and hurl him into three of his friends. All four slam against the concrete wall hard enough to leave a web of cracks in the masonry. They slide down, leaving smears of red behind them.
A knife comes at my back—spider-sense flaring unnecessarily—and I don't even turn around. I just reach behind me, seize the attacker's wrist, and squeeze. Bones powder under my grip like they're made of chalk. His scream cuts through the gunfire.
"Nepravil'nyy otvet," I growl. [Wrong answer]
A mountain of a man—six-foot-six, three hundred pounds of muscle—charges me with a roar, swinging a metal pipe. I catch it one-handed, the impact not even moving me an inch. His momentum stops dead against my immovable form. The look of confusion on his face turns to horror as I slowly close my fist, crumpling the industrial steel pipe like paper. I flick my wrist and send him cartwheeling across the room with enough force to dent the support column he crashes into.
Sometimes, I don't need smoke. Don't need shadows. Don't need to hide.
Two terrified men spray automatic fire directly at my chest. I walk straight through it, the bullets pinging off harmlessly or flattening against the denser parts of my suit. One jams his empty gun against my chest in desperation. I look down at it, then back at him
"Bozhe moi," he whispers. [My God]
I pick him up with one hand and casually toss him into the ceiling. He hits with enough force to break through the plasterboard before crashing back down twenty feet away.
Their leader, the obvious Spetsnaz veteran, empties a full clip center mass. I don't flinch, don't dodge. The bullets feel like paintballs hitting my chest. When his magazine empties, the metallic click echoes in the sudden silence.
His hands actually tremble as he tries to reload, even begged before realizing it was futile. I close the distance casually, almost bored.
"What the fuck are you?" he whispers, voice breaking.
"I'm Batman." I seize him by the throat and lift him with one hand until his feet dangle a foot off the ground. His weight means nothing to me.
I squeeze just enough to feel his trachea begin to crackle under my fingers. "Tell Vasily his operation is finished. There is no territory." I increase the pressure until his eyes bulge. "And if I see Bratva colors in my city again, I'll peel you all like grapes."
I drop him to his knees. He gasps, clutches his throat, then looks up at me with naked terror.
"Please," he croaks. "We didn't know... this territory was claimed."
"Now you do." I grab him by his jacket and throw him—a controlled toss that sends him sliding across the concrete floor until he crashes into his groaning comrades. "Spread the word. It's claimed by the people of New York..."