184. Embers in the Ruins. (Patreon)

Harry Osborn POV:

The warehouse was supposed to be dead.

Condemned. Forgotten. Waiting for a wrecking ball and a paperwork signature to erase it from the map of New York. Tonight, it felt alive because I was alive in it, burning like a volcanic fault line that had finally decided to split.

My tank top clung to me due to sweat, half-scorched, the fabric struggling against the heat and boiling sweat rolling off my skin. My arms glowed like orange embers beneath ash, veins standing out like blackened roots under molten glass. When I clenched my fist, I could feel the Extremis coursing in my blood. Barely stable, burning and furious.

My eyes caught my reflection in a cracked mirror shard leaning against a crate.

Burning yellow irises and black sclera stared back.

The air around me bent, shimmering like a desert mirage. Every breath tasted like metal and smoke.

I curled my fist and the heat answered.

A beam of heat erupted from my knuckles, screaming through the warehouse and punching clean through a concrete wall. The impact wasn’t loud so much as final. Brick and rebar surrendered instantly, edges of the hole sagging and dripping, molten concrete sliding down like lava.

I let out a short, breathless, half-mad laugh.

Then I ran.

I leapt, I twisted and I flipped. Pulling off movements my old body could never have pulled off. I rebounded off walls, vaulted over broken machinery, spun midair like gravity was just another suggestion. For ten minutes, I wasn’t Harry Osborn. I was fire.

And then, just as suddenly the blaze receded.

The heat drained out of me in waves, leaving weakness in its place. My knees buckled. I collapsed onto the floor, which was still half-melted beneath me, steam hissing as my skin cooled. My lungs burned. Every breath came out ragged, torn apart by exhaustion.

That was when I heard her heels.

Felicia came running, the sound of sharp clicks of her heels against concrete cutting through my haze. She skidded to a stop beside me, already unscrewing a bottle of cold water, shoving it into my hands along with enough food to feed a small army.

“Eat,” She said urgently. “Drink. Don’t argue.”

I didn’t.

I tore into the food like I hadn’t eaten in days, water spilling down my chin as I gulped it. My hands shook but the warmth in my chest slowly settled into something survivable.

Felicia sat beside me on the filthy floor, not caring about the soot or the grime. She watched me with that familiar mix of concern and sharp honesty that I’d come to rely on.

“Harry,” She said softly, “this isn’t worth it.”

I swallowed hard.

“Forget facing Peter in armor,” She continued. “Forget Gwen. Even without the suits… I don’t think you’d last. Not against him or Gwen.”

She wasn’t cruel about it. She was just telling the truth and that somehow made it worse.

“I know,” I said, my voice still rough. “I know I’m not a match for either of them. I’m not stupid.”

I stared at my hands, still faintly glowing.

“But Extremis…” I exhaled. “It gives me something. A sliver of confidence. A lie I can tell myself that maybe... just maybe I’m not completely helpless.”

Felicia frowned, then shook her head. “Or maybe you’re thinking too hard. Making a mountain out of a molehill.”

I glanced at her.

“You really think air-gapping a system keeps data away from Peter?” She went on. “My dad had… connections. Old ones. I learned things. Peter’s stolen information from agencies that only existed on paper. Locked rooms. Physical vaults. If he wants something, he finds it.”

I let out a tired laugh. “You’re incredible, you know that?”

She snorted. “There’s nothing amazing about thievery.”

I turned toward her fully. “You know everything about me, Felicia. The good. The ugly. The parts I don’t even like to admit exist.” I hesitated. “I think… I deserve to know something about you, too.”

She was quiet for a long moment.

Then she sighed and when she spoke, her voice softened in a way I hadn’t heard before.

“My mom died giving birth to me.” She said. “Never knew her. Just stories.”

I listened, too engrossed to interrupt.

“My dad... Walter Hardy, he was an extraordinary world-class thief. Le Chat Noir. But to me, he was just Dad. Kind. Careful. He loved me more than anything.” A small smile touched her lips. “He taught me early. Locks. Balance. Timing. He said if I was going to live in his world, I deserved to be good at it but the choice to use those skills? That was mine.”

Her smile faded, replaced by something heavier.

“We made one mistake. One. We stole Kingpin’s first dollar. Sentimentality.” Her voice trembled, just slightly. “He sent his most vicious enforcer after us. Matt Murdock.”

I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cooling floor.

“I survived.” She said while wiping tears. “Dad didn’t.”

She stared ahead, eyes unfocused. “After that, I drifted. Sang on street corners. Slept wherever I could. Then Mary Jane found me. Gave me a chance. Backup vocalist with her band. The Mary Janes.” A faint laugh. “Glory, Betty, Gwen, Em Jay, they treated me like family.”

I swallowed.

“A French label made me an offer.” She continued. “I took it. Became the lead singer of the French band Black Cats. For a while, we were everything.” Her shoulders slumped. “Then we weren’t. Fame fades. Novelty dies.”

She looked at me again. “I heard Murderdock was locked up. Slipped on soap in the showers. Died.” No satisfaction in her voice. Just closure. “While I didn't believe it, I took my money and came back.”

She took a breath.

“I enrolled at Empire State University. Got a diploma in Business Administration while Peter was in a coma, rebuilding himself piece by piece.” Her gaze hardened with resolve. “I didn’t waste my money. I didn’t want to be homeless again. I didn’t want to steal anymore.”

I nodded slowly. “So Oscorp?”

“Parker Industries didn’t exist yet.” She said. “And when it did, they didn’t hire personal assistants. Espionage paranoia.” A small smirk. “Stark offered less than Oscorp.”

I laughed softly. “Of course he did.”

She finished, voice steady. “I chose stability.”

I looked at her. Really looked at her.

“I’m glad you told me ” I said. “I’m glad you’re here.”

She leaned closer. “Me too.”

We met halfway, the kiss slow and real, tasting of smoke, exhaustion and something dangerously close to hope.

Neither of us noticed the shadow on the rooftop above.

Or the quiet whir of a high-powered camera recording everything.