The wrecking ball hit the north wall of Facility 7 at exactly 9:15 AM, and Harry felt something deep in his chest unclench for the first time in weeks. Standing in the temporary observation tower overlooking the demolition site in Long Island City, Queens, he watched thirty years of his father's weapons manufacturing turn into rubble and twisted steel.
Every blueprint, every schematic, every piece of manufacturing data had been meticulously documented before the first swing of the hammer. Harry's team had spent two weeks cataloguing weapons designs, production methods, and quality control specifications. Not for nostalgia or corporate record-keeping, but for something far more practical.
Know your enemy's weapons, and you know how to stop them.
"The third assembly line produced the rifle components found in Somalia," Felicia Hardy said, appearing beside him with a tablet full of evidence that made Harry's coffee taste like ash. "Metal composition analysis matches fragments recovered from the embassy bombing. Your father's factory made the guns that killed 127 people last month."
Harry didn't flinch at the number anymore. He'd learned to compartmentalize the guilt, to channel it into something more useful than self-pity. But seeing the actual assembly line that had produced those weapons, watching it crumble under ten thousand pounds of swinging steel, felt like performing surgery on his own soul.
"Good," he said quietly. "Let it burn."
The $3 billion reconstruction initiative had started as corporate philanthropy, but it had evolved into something more strategic. Harry wasn't just rebuilding neighborhoods damaged by the Chitauri invasion. He was targeting the specific areas where criminal organizations were filling power vacuums left by the chaos.
Hell's Kitchen, where Wilson Fisk was quietly acquiring damaged properties through shell companies. East Harlem, where families had been living in FEMA trailers for eight months while their apartment buildings sat condemned. The Lower East Side, where small businesses had been destroyed and never reopened, leaving entire blocks to decay.
Forty-seven neighborhoods in total. Each one a potential breeding ground for the kind of organized crime that thrived on desperation and abandonment. Each one now receiving the kind of focused investment that made criminal expansion economically unviable.
"It's brilliant, actually," Felicia had told him during their strategy session that morning. "You're not just fighting crime, which is also good. You're eliminating the conditions that create it."
But Harry was beginning to understand that philanthropy, no matter how well-targeted, had limitations. You could rebuild neighborhoods and provide opportunities, but there would always be people who chose to prey on others. People who saw kindness as weakness and viewed innocent civilians as acceptable casualties in their pursuit of power.
People like his father.
That evening, Harry found himself walking through the Two Bridges neighborhood near the Manhattan Bridge, ostensibly checking on reconstruction progress but really just needing to see the results of his work with his own eyes. The area had been hit hard during the invasion, with three buildings completely destroyed and dozens more damaged by falling debris.
Now, six months later, the neighborhood was coming back to life. New apartment buildings with affordable housing units. A community center offering job training and childcare. Small business loans that had enabled local entrepreneurs to reopen shops and restaurants that had been destroyed.
It was progress. Real, measurable improvement in people's lives.
But as Harry walked past a group of teenagers gathered outside the new community center, he overheard a conversation that reminded him why good intentions weren't enough.
"My cousin got jumped again last night," one of the kids was saying. "Same guys as before. They're saying we need to pay protection money if we want to keep using the basketball court."
"What did the cops say?"
"Same thing they always say. File a report, they'll look into it. But nothing ever happens."
Harry kept walking, but the conversation stuck with him. Here was a neighborhood with new buildings, new opportunities, new hope. But the predators were still there, still finding ways to exploit and terrorize people who just wanted to live their lives in peace.
That's when he saw her.
The woman was maybe thirty, Asian, and quite beautiful. She was putting up flyers on lampposts and community bulletin boards, her focus absolute as she worked her way down Monroe Street.
Harry slowed his pace, pretending to examine his phone while reading one of the flyers over her shoulder.
"Chikara Dojo
- Traditional Martial Arts Training
- All Skill Levels Welcome
- 47 Monroe Street."
The woman finished with the current lamppost and moved to the next one, but something about her movements caught Harry's attention. She wasn't just posting flyers. She was assessing her environment, noting potential threats, positioning herself to maintain awareness of multiple approach routes.
"Excuse me," Harry said, approaching carefully. "I couldn't help but notice your flyers. Are you the instructor?"
She turned to face him. "I'm Colleen Wing," she said, extending her hand. "And you're interested in martial arts training?"
"Maybe. I'm Harry Osborn." He waited for the usual reaction to his name, but Colleen's expression didn't change.
"Ah, that's why you look familiar. Gotta say, your company's been doing good work in this neighborhood." She gestured toward the construction sites and renovated buildings. "But you want to learn how to fight. Why?"
The question was direct, probing, and Harry realized this was some kind of test. "I want to protect myself, things have gotten dangerous these days."
Colleen studied his face for a long moment. "And you think martial arts will make you stronger?"
"I think understanding how to defend myself is a skill worth having."
"Fair enough." She handed him one of the flyers. "But understand something, Mr. Osborn. Real strength isn't about hurting people. It's about discipline, about knowing when to fight and when to walk away. If you're looking for a way to feel powerful, find a different hobby."
Harry took the flyer, noting the address. "And if I'm looking for discipline?"
For the first time, Colleen smiled. "Then maybe we can work together."
As Harry walked home to Oscorp Tower, he thought about the teenagers worried about paying protection money, about the families still rebuilding their lives after the invasion, about all the people who deserved to feel safe in their own neighborhoods.
Philanthropy could rebuild buildings and create opportunities. But it couldn't confront the bullies in the schoolyard, couldn't stand up to the criminals who saw vulnerability as opportunity, couldn't be there in the moment when someone needed protection.
For that, he needed a different set of "skills."
....
..
Back in his penthouse office, Harry spread the evening's intelligence reports across his desk. Crime statistics, police response times, incident reports from the neighborhoods where Oscorp was investing billions in reconstruction. The data painted a clear picture.... property crime was down, economic opportunities were up, but violent crime remained stubbornly persistent.
Harry pulled out his phone and dialed a number.
"Felicia? It's Harry. I need you to run a background check on someone. Colleen Wing, operates a martial arts school in the Two Bridges area." He paused, looking out at the city lights spreading across Manhattan like a circuit board. "And start researching self-defense instructors in the city. I want to know who's legitimate and who's just taking advantage of people's fears."
"Planning to take some karate classes?" Felicia's voice carried amusement but also understanding.
"No, it's just part of the broader infastructure plan." He lied.
After hanging up, Harry remained at his desk, staring at the Chikara Dojo flyer. Traditional martial arts training. All skill levels welcome.
He'd spent months dismantling his father's criminal empire, redirecting corporate resources toward humanitarian goals, trying to atone for decades of damage through philanthropy and good works. But tonight, listening to those kids worry about protection money, Harry had realized that some problems couldn't be solved withharitable initiatives.
Gotta get your hands dirty.
Some problems required becoming the kind of person that bullies thought twice about confronting.
The next morning, Harry would have Bernard clear his schedule for Tuesday and Thursday evenings. He would trade his designer suits for training clothes.
With all journeys, there was a first step. And his in particular, would begin with learning how to fall.