*Presbyterian Hospital.*
George Stacy stood in Gwen's hospital room, eager to understand what had happened the night of the incident—particularly Peter's involvement. He found it hard to believe Peter was merely a bystander, as Gwen had claimed.
"Dad, I... I just need some time alone, please," Gwen said, sitting on the bed with her legs pulled up to her chest. She buried her face in her knees, hiding her expression from her father.
Hearing the unsteadiness in his daughter's voice, George frowned with concern.
"Gwen, are you alright?"
"I'm fine... I just want to know, Dad, why do I always seem to face death?"
Her question caught George Stacy off guard.
"Just like when I lost Mom... and now this. It feels like I'm always caught in this cycle, bringing death and destruction to the people around me," she said, her voice heavy with emotion.
George walked over to her, gently patting her hair. "No, Gwen, this is not your fault," he reassured her.
"But why do the people I love the most keep leaving me, and I can't do anything to stop it?" Gwen lifted her tear-streaked face to look at her father.
Although George didn't fully understand what had happened, he knelt by her side, comforting her softly. "We can't stop death, and it doesn't bend to our will. But it shouldn't be the source of all our pain and self-blame."
Gwen wanted so badly to tell her father about Peter's condition, but she remembered the promise she had made and kept quiet.
"I used to think I could be some kind of savior, Dad. But now I know I can't. I've lost faith in my ability to change anything," she confessed, her voice hollow.
George listened intently, his brow furrowing as his daughter's despair deepened.
Gwen exhaled, defeated. "It feels like life is a runaway donkey cart heading toward a cliff, and I'm powerless to stop it. I'll fall into the abyss no matter how hard I scream, and no one will hear me. I've tried so hard to prevent bad things from happening, to take control of my fate. But it's impossible, isn't it? Stopping fate is as pointless as placing a coin on a railroad track to stop a speeding train."
Thinking about losing two of the most important people in her life the same way made her heart ache.
George, sensing his daughter's overwhelming sadness, continued to stroke her hair. "You know, Gwen, whenever I came home from a hard day at work, your mother would ask how I was doing."
"I'd tell her it was alright. And she'd kiss me on the cheek and say, 'You'll do better next time.'"
George smiled faintly. "Your mother never believed in fate. No matter how hard things got, she always fought back. She believed that she'd win the next time, no matter what."
He paused, looking at Gwen. "So, I don't know what you're going through right now, but I believe in you. You're my daughter, and I know you'll win next time."
After hearing her father's words, Gwen's despair began to lift a little. Peter had said it was just a pre-tumor. Maybe her father was right—maybe she could change things.
No matter what, she had to prevent her mother's tragedy from repeating itself with Peter.
Taking a deep breath, Gwen pulled herself together and looked at her father with determination. "Dad, I need to borrow some money."
"How much?" George asked, surprised by the sudden request, but also relieved to see his daughter looking more focused.
"The more, the better," Gwen replied. She needed to raise as much as possible for Peter's medical treatment.
"Fifty thousand dollars... would that be okay, Dad?" she asked hesitantly.
George hesitated. Was his daughter being scammed by someone?
---
*Osborn Tower.*
Osborn Industries, one of the most powerful companies in the U.S., had made numerous advances in manufacturing, compression technologies, automotive production, and chemical processing. With 110 factories and seven research institutions worldwide, it was particularly dominant in the chemical industry.
"Dad?"
Harry Osborn walked into his father Norman's office.
"You should've knocked, Harry. This is a workplace, not home," Norman said sternly, putting down the document he was reviewing.
"Sorry, Dad. I just wanted to..." Harry began, but Norman cut him off.
"Did the funeral end already? I thought you were attending," Norman asked, eyeing his son.
"Yeah, but I didn't stay for the whole ceremony. It'll probably finish in the afternoon."
Norman nodded approvingly. "You handled yourself well at the United Nations charity event. That'll help expand your network. If you continue to mature, Harry, maybe I won't need to worry as much."
Harry bit his tongue, wanting to ask what his father meant by 'maturity.' Why did Norman always criticize him for being immature?
"Dad, do you know what happened at the football game? Was it really just a fire?"
After a long pause, Harry asked the question that had been on his mind.
Norman glanced at his son, his cold gaze piercing. "I don't know, and it's none of your concern. Don't disappoint me, Harry."
"I just don't know what I'm supposed to do," Harry said, his frustration building. He could no longer hold back his emotions.
Looking directly at his father, Harry finally let it out. "I don't understand what 'maturity' means to you. You've spent ten years shaping me, pruning me like some bonsai tree, trying to make me into the person you want me to be. But I'm telling you, Dad, you've taken more away from me than you've ever given."
Norman's face darkened as he listened to his son's outburst.
"So if I'm not what you want me to be, that's on you, Dad. You made me this way," Harry said, his voice trembling with anger and hurt.
Norman Osborn's expression grew colder. After a long moment, he pointed to the door. "Get out," he ordered, his voice deadly calm.
Harry slammed the door behind him, standing in the hallway, shivering slightly from the adrenaline.
He had never spoken to his father like that before.
Harry had wanted to ask his father to join him at the science exhibition this weekend. Instead, he had managed to ruin everything.
Frustrated and ashamed, Harry slunk away from the office corridor, feeling the sting of failure.
---
Inside the office, after Harry's footsteps faded, Norman Osborn turned his attention back to the document in front of him. It was a report on the tragedy that had occurred three days ago during the football game at Midtown High.
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