190. Hoodie and Corporate Funerals. (Patreon)

Felicia POV:

Peter Parker was the richest man on the planet.

There was no official proof, no press release stamped with WORLD’S RICHEST HUMAN in bold letters but anyone with half a brain and a working internet connection knew it. Same went for Gwen. People whispered that she was Spider-Woman or Iron Spider or the Archangel of the Web or all three, depending on how conspiracy-addicted they were feeling that week.

I’d broken into enough penthouses, vaults, yachts and private islands to know how obscene wealth usually expressed itself.

Gold everywhere. White marble that looked like it had never been stepped on. Furniture chosen by committees instead of people. Homes that felt more like mausoleums for money than places where someone actually lived.

So when I stepped into Peter and Gwen Parker’s private penthouse...

I stopped.

It wasn’t gaudy. It wasn’t dripping with excess. It was… quiet.

Clean lines. Warm lighting. Functional furniture that clearly got used. A living space designed around movement, comfort and habit. Books stacked with intent instead of display. A kitchen that smelled faintly of coffee and citrus. Windows that framed the city instead of trying to dominate it.

The place had a soul. That was what hit me hardest. This wasn’t a billionaire’s trophy home.

It was a home home. It was a home where people lived.

I barely had time to process that before Gwen stepped out of what I assumed was their bedroom.

And my brain short-circuited.

She was wearing a hoodie. Worn thin, soft enough that I could tell from across the room it had been washed a hundred times. Bright yellow and definitely not couture.

Printed across the chest:

E = mc² (Energy = Milk × Coffee²)

Her legs were bare, probably sports shorts hidden under the oversized hoodie. She was lean and strong. Segmented leg muscles moving naturally as she walked, not posed, not flexed just there. The kind of build you only get from years of real combat and real training.

She looked exhausted. Bone-deep tired and yeah I stared.

“Hey,” Gwen said flatly. “I’m married.”

The words snapped me back to reality like a slap.

I felt heat rush to my face. “Sorry! I wasn’t...I mean... your legs are just... really muscular.”

"Smooth, Felicia. Real smooth." I mentally said while mentally slapping my forehead.

Gwen squinted at me for half a second then sighed like she didn’t have the energy to care.

“Yeah. Yeah.” She turned toward the kitchen. “Now tell me why you two thought the middle of the night was a good or appropriate time for a visit.”

She opened the fridge, pulled out three bottles of orange juice, tossed one to Harry, one to me and cracked the third open herself. She started chugging like she’d just run a marathon.

Harry didn’t hesitate.

“I need Parker Industries to swallow Oscorp completely.”

Gwen froze for a moment and then promptly choked on her drink.

Gwen POV:

The juice went down the wrong pipe so hard it felt personal.

I coughed, spluttered and barely managed to keep from spraying citrus across my living room floor.

“I’m...” cough “...sorry,” I croaked. “What?”

Harry stepped forward, setting down a cardboard box I hadn’t even registered before. I’d assumed it was clothes or something sentimental because the analytic models predicted that Harry would be evicted from the board by the other shareholders at the end of the month.

I opened it.

Stacks of documents. Hundreds of pages of financial records, lab reports, internal memos, shell companies, embezzlement trails, tax evasion schemes, nonsensical genetic experimentation made to siphon off R&D money, weapons platforms hidden behind medical R&D budgets.

My exhaustion evaporated, replaced by cold clarity.

I looked up at Harry slowly.

“Harry,” I said carefully, “why bring this to us? Or...” I exhaled through my nose. “..to Peter, specifically?”

Harry swallowed and rubbed his palms together like he was trying to scrub something invisible off his skin.

“You know,” He said quietly, “I’m actually a really shameless person.”

That earned him a look.

“I discovered something bad about my dad.” I attached an eyebrow. “My dad,” he continued, voice rough, “had Peter’s parents killed. He wanted their perfected research on cross-species genetics. He sent someone after them. They died in that plane crash and Peter was orphaned.”

The room felt smaller.

“I found out,” Harry went on, letting out a hollow laugh. “And instead of doing the right thing, I got scared of what he might do to me. So I went and got the Extremis procedure done. Gave myself powers. Insurance, I guess.”

He looked at me then, eyes raw. “And now I’m here asking for his help.”

Anger flared like a flamethrower in my chest.

“Clanker,” I said evenly, “does Peter know?”

“Yes, Mrs. Parker,” Clanker replied without hesitation. “Mr. Parker has known for some time. That is the reason Norman Osborn was quietly denied all medical assistance from Parker Pharmaceuticals and was allowed to die from Retroviral Hypodysplasia.”

I closed my eyes.

Slowly nodded.

“Guess Peter made it even.” I murmured.

I pressed my palms to my cheeks, grounding myself, then straightened and looked Harry dead in the eye.

“Well,” I said firmly, exhaustion giving way to purpose, “Harry Osborn...” I clapped my hands together once. "...let’s go destroy your dad’s legacy.”

Since he walked in, Harry smiled and it wasn’t the hollow corporate kind.