Harry watched the severed red spike on the screen.
A researcher cut off a small piece of tissue with tweezers. The cut sealed itself in just three seconds, leaving no trace behind.
"This regenerative ability comes from the symbiote itself," Drake said over the phone. "But we've found a way to convert it into a cytokine humans can use."
"What's the success rate?"
"If we're talking about ordinary people, the numbers aren't impressive enough yet."
Harry stared at the video. "What about me?"
The other end of the line went silent for a moment.
"Your body is better suited to this technology than an ordinary person's."
"Because I'm dying?"
"Because your heart muscle has already been rewritten by your genetic disease. Normal cells reject the new structure, but your body is waiting to be rebuilt."
Drake's voice was steady.
"Harry, you don't need Spider-Man's blood, and you don't need to turn yourself into a lizard. All you need is one precise repair procedure. Your heart will recover, your family's curse will end, and the Osborn name will rise from the ranks of failures."
Harry knocked over the pillbox on his desk.
A few pills rolled onto the carpet.
His chest suddenly tightened, pain pressing from his left ribs all the way up to his throat. He braced himself against the edge of the desk and waited for the spasm to pass.
In the bottom-right corner of his computer screen, Peter's missed call was still flashing.
The fourth.
The fifth.
Harry picked up his phone, his thumb hovering over the call-back button.
Yang Ming had a way.
Peter had said he wouldn't give up on me.
But that doctor had never seen his heart. A seventy percent chance also meant a thirty percent chance of failure. Besides, he had already turned