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Norman and Harry slowly sat up on the lab's surgical tables, their bodies feeling lighter than ever before.
Norman exhaled, glancing at Nolan with gratitude. "Boss, you've saved the Osborn family."
The degenerative genetic disorder that had haunted their lineage was completely purged and replaced by regenerative genes. The pain they had lived with for years was gone.
Even the effects of Prototype No. 2 paled in comparison to this.
Harry stared at Nolan like he was looking at a god.
Ever since discovering that Spider-Man was his classmate, Peter, he had fantasized about becoming a superhero—possessing extraordinary strength, agility, and the adoration of crowds.
That was every young man's dream.
But now, seeing Nolan, he understood what true power was.
He didn't need powers from an accident—he created them with his own hands.
He had the means to heal, to extend life… What else could you call that but divine?
"There's no need for flattery," Nolan said calmly. "Just do your jobs well. I always take care of my own."
He then turned to Dr. Connors. "How's the data? Are the results consistent across different individuals?"
Connors nodded. "Norman's regenerative rate is slightly lower than Harry's. It could be due to enzyme differences or overall physique. But Boss, your healing factor is three to five times faster than either of theirs."
Even as he read the numbers aloud, Connors swallowed—awed by the implications.
After injecting Phoenix Serum-3 into all four subjects, Nolan ordered tests on muscle and skin regeneration.
Nolan's healing ability was simply… abnormal. In the best possible way.
"Burn the data," Nolan ordered. "And keep Phoenix Serum-3 under wraps. We're not ready to defend it yet."
The three men immediately nodded in unison.
They understood: once the secret got out, billionaires and powerbrokers would descend like vultures.
And without the power to fight back, negotiation wouldn't be an option.
They wouldn't ask politely. They'd take it. If they couldn't take it… they'd start a war.
Only strength commands respect.
Even now, if black gold is discovered somewhere in the world, a certain country always shows up first—ready to claim it, no matter the cost.
It was the same when Tony Stark announced he was Iron Man.
He faced political pressure, corporate sabotage, and outright attempts to steal his tech. Eventually, he compromised by gifting the military a downgraded knockoff: the Iron Patriot.
But even today, they still demand access to his Iron Man and Arc Reactor technology.
"Connors put Logan in cryostasis," Nolan instructed. "I'll handle him later. Keep refining the Jessica serum."
Then he turned to Norman. "See if you can find a compatible host for the Daredevil serum—preferably someone who's blind. If that doesn't work, test the alternative designs I gave you."
"Understood," Norman replied, then added, "Boss, that site you asked me to monitor… A few days ago, a convoy of trucks arrived. A lot of new personnel too. I kept a small team there for surveillance."
"Noted. I'll deal with it personally."
Nolan looked up and shouted, "Max!"
Norman reached for his phone, assuming Nolan meant to call someone.
But sparks flared across the lab's security shutters. Electricity arced into the air, gathering and pulsing.
Moments later, a figure took form in the center of the room—Max Dillon, crackling with blue energy.
"Get dressed," Nolan said. "You're coming with me."
"Yes, Boss."
Nolan had sensed Max hiding in the electricity. His awareness, enhanced by spider sense and mental focus, had picked him up long before.
Some called it a sixth sense. In Eastern mysticism, they might say "divine intuition." Westerners would call it enhanced extrasensory perception.
It was likely why Matt Murdock advanced so quickly in his meditative training under Stick—becoming his most gifted pupil.
This kind of mental strength amplified mystical disciplines like meditation to frightening degrees.
Nolan had the potential, but not yet the method.
That's why the Hand's ancient techniques… were his next target.
Later That Night – Hell's Kitchen, New York City
Inside a small, dimly lit apartment, two women sat facing each other.
One had vibrant green hair, a striking, venomous beauty like a jungle serpent.
The other—cold, silent—stood barefoot atop a closed coffin. Her black suit clung to a lithe, motionless frame. Her eyes, cold and dark, betrayed no emotion.
It was Elektra—the resurrected weapon of the Hand.
"You haven't made your move yet?" Viper asked, narrowing her eyes.
She hadn't dealt with the Hand in a while—and now, to her surprise, its leader was this silent girl. A child in appearance… but not in presence.
From the moment Viper saw her, she knew: they were the same kind of predator.
"The Sanctum's agents have reappeared," Elektra said softly. "They're searching for something. If we act too soon, they'll interfere. Even the mission you contracted us for could be compromised."
Viper's expression hardened. "If you wait too long, he'll make the first move. And then you won't be in control."
"He's just another enhanced human," Elektra replied flatly. "How many of those have the Hand already brought down? Superman? Please. Against the Beast… nothing stands."
Her black eyes didn't flicker once.
Viper stared deep into Elektra's face.
She had operated in Japan for decades—she knew the Hand's founders were five ancient beings who had lived for centuries, perhaps longer. Compared to them, even she was a child.
But those five remained hidden in the shadows.
It was Elektra—Black Sky—who ruled on the surface.
The Hand's power in New York had grown quickly, especially after Baron Zemo had destroyed most of Hydra's assets.
But Viper hadn't brought her own people across the ocean. Instead, she turned to the Hand.
She needed someone to test Nolan—and, if possible, eliminate him. Discover what he was hiding.
"I'll remain here for a little while longer," Elektra said coolly. "But when the time comes, I'll strike. Just be ready to deliver on your end."
"You'll have what you asked for," Viper replied.
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