Oscorp headquarters, thirty-second-floor laboratory.
Outside three layers of blast-resistant glass, Norman Osborn stood ramrod straight.
He wore an impeccably tailored dark gray suit that day, his tie knotted with meticulous care. If not for the pace at which his right hand unconsciously tapped the glass railing, anyone would have thought the head of Oscorp was still calm, elegant, and beyond reproach.
But beside him, Dr. Erskine's back was already soaked with sweat.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Every time Norman tapped, his eyelid twitched.
In the center of the laboratory, a chimpanzee missing its left hind leg was secured to a specially designed metal chair. Only half its thigh remained, the stump covered in an old, dark red scar, with sparse hair and wrinkled skin.
Dr. Connors stood at the console.
His right sleeve hung empty, but his left hand was perfectly steady.
"Confirm the vital signs for the third time."
"Heart rate, one hundred twelve."
"Blood oxygen, ninety-eight."
"Adrenaline levels normal."
"Neural conduction signals stable."
The assistants reported in quick succession.
Connors stared at the screen without immediately giving the order.
A year earlier, Spider-Man, Daredevil, Punisher, and the others had joined forces to take down Norman's Underground Laboratory. The research records had burned to ashes, and every sample of lizard serum had been destroyed.
Worse still, those crudely produced Lizard Men had not even lasted ten minutes.
Some had suffered skeletal deformities throughout their bodies.
Some had suffered ruptured hearts.
Others had barely lunged at Spider-Man before blood blisters bulged beneath their skin, one after another, until they exploded into a mess of mangled flesh.
Oscorp's stock price had taken a hit.
That failure had also exhausted much of Norman's patience.
"Connors."
Norman spoke from behind the blast-resistant glass.
"I don't like watching people waste time."
Connors looked up and