Chapter 18: The Red and Blue Spider Demons

Peter eventually fell asleep on the game room sofa, his head somehow resting on Jason’s thigh. He seemed to be dreaming of something delicious, smacking his lips and licking them in his sleep. He looked even more like a child than Damian.

Jason sighed inwardly, gently moving Peter’s head aside before getting up to find Alfred.

The elder was still reviewing footage with Bruce, replaying how they had dealt with Ivy today. Jason felt nauseous every time he saw the flashing red and blue figure on the screen. Even though the figure had saved the family in the car, Jason was stingy with any sign of approval.

“He uses the same kind of device as the man in black,” Alfred said, showing Jason the analysis results. “Maybe when he wears black, he’s under a curse that renders him mute.”

Bruce remained silent, deep in thought.

“Help me analyze his weaknesses, Alfred,” Jason said. “Next time, I want to make him pay.”

“Jason,” Bruce said disapprovingly, staring at him.

Jason sneered coldly, “You can’t stop me…”

Bruce interrupted, “You can’t fight him.”

Jason was momentarily speechless.

Alfred cleared his throat but couldn’t stop Bruce from finishing, “You can’t beat him.”

Jason fell silent, then stormed off.

Alfred looked at Bruce.

Bruce shrugged. “I’m not wrong.”

Alfred decided not to put any sugar in Bruce’s cookies today.

After Jason left, Bruce went to the game room, expecting to catch Damian secretly playing games, but instead found Peter asleep on the sofa.

He looked exhausted, sleeping deeply, curled up tightly as if feeling cold or insecure.

Bruce remembered how Dick, as a child, would sometimes fall asleep in corners of the manor after training or night patrols, curled up just like this. Bruce would usually carry him back to his bedroom. Dick often woke up during the move, trembling from insecurity, only relaxing when he saw Bruce’s face.

But Dick was shy as a child; once awake, he would leap down to walk on his own.

Peter was past the age of being carried back to bed, so Bruce draped a blanket over him.

Peter slept too warmly and was almost late the next morning.

The extra blanket carried a comforting scent. Feeling refreshed, Peter turned over and frowned when he saw his phone.

There was a missed call from Harry.

Walking toward his bedroom, Peter called back, “Harry? Are you alright? Did you need something?”

“I…” Harry’s voice sounded exhausted. “Can you come? I… need you right now.”

“To where? School? I’m getting ready now,” Peter said, quickly putting on his jacket and jogging downstairs.

“No, to my place,” Harry said hoarsely. “My father died.”

Peter was momentarily speechless.

“I’ll send you the address.” Ignoring the silence on the other end, Harry hung up. Peter soon received a message with an address in a wealthy neighborhood—presumably Harry’s home.

News of Norman Osborn’s death hadn’t been announced yet; it seemed Harry hadn’t learned about it from the media.

Peter felt conflicted.

With no news about the Osborns, Peter instead found news about himself. Last night, many had seen Spider-Man; online reports described his appearance with photos and videos showing his immense strength and short-distance flight. Though the footage was blurry, the articles ended with calls to buy high-definition pictures of the red-and-blue Spider.

A vein throbbed at Peter’s temple as he commented anonymously, “That’s Spider-Man, right?” trying to suppress the excessive nicknames.

The Osborn estate was a villa in the wealthy district, its owner seemingly disliking sunlight—curtains were tightly drawn.

Peter was led straight to Harry’s room, where Harry sat on the edge of his bed. Hearing Peter’s voice, he tucked Norman Osborn’s lifeless hand back under the blanket.

Harry nodded at Peter, who quietly stood behind him, placing a hand on Harry’s shoulder in a gesture of support.

Old Osborn’s face was pale and greenish; Harry trembled as he covered his father’s face.

“I still have to go to the company,” Harry said with a shaky voice. “My father said it was my inheritance, but I don’t see the point.”

Peter suspected it was related to a hereditary disease in the Osborn family. Norman’s death was too sudden, and Harry clearly hadn’t prepared mentally. Peter worried about his friend’s physical condition.

But now wasn’t the time to discuss that. Peter just needed to be there for him.

“Maybe I should sell my shares and take a payout to live idly,” Harry tried to sound lighthearted.

Peter gripped his shoulder firmly. “Don’t give up, Harry. You still have time. Your father must have left research behind. I can help. You can’t give up so soon!”

Harry glanced away. “It’s strange, isn’t it? We’ve only known each other two days, and I’m calling you here for this.”

“Let’s just pretend we never parted for the past decade,” Peter replied firmly.

Peter had once chatted with his counterpart, Peter Parker, who also had a childhood friend named Harry Osborn. They had fallen out and even fought at times, but that Harry died shielding Spider-Man from a stabbing.

He would never let something like that happen to this Harry.

Overwhelmed by protectiveness, Peter took time off to stay with Harry at Osborn Industries all day, helping him handle shareholders who treated him like a pawn.

Harry was only twenty and appeared inexperienced to the shareholders, but he handled things well, ignoring those trying to cozy up and instead promoting Norman’s assistant to chief of staff, putting all matters through her.

Having spent years with the elder Osborn in Gotham, Harry was well-versed in company affairs, keeping projects, partners, and research funding organized.

He was just overwhelmed by grief and fear for his own mortality.

As dusk fell outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, Peter felt uneasy, knowing Gotham’s underworld crime stirred beneath its neon lights. Harry was still engrossed in his desktop computer, searching for something, until the butler Bernard brought dinner, and Harry suddenly looked up.

He looked at Peter as if awakening from a dream. “You should go after dinner. I’m fine.”

Peter glanced at Bernard, the white-haired elder nodding and bowing in thanks for Peter’s company. The butler reminded Peter of Alfred.

Peter and Harry embraced tightly before Peter hurried downstairs.

His loyal friend Bumblebee had followed him from Harry’s to Osborn Industries but was still sulking when Peter left because the security guards at the Osborn estate had blocked their beat-up car, calling it too dilapidated and detaining Peter for a while. Bumblebee had wanted to transform into the latest Lamborghini on the spot but was held back firmly by Peter.

Peter felt frustrated too and decided to team up with Bumblebee to beat up some criminals and use his camera to snap some high-definition Spider-Man photos to sell to the press for pocket money.

As Peter left Osborn Industries, Tim stood by the Wayne Group CEO’s office window, binoculars trained on Harry in the chairman’s office.

Since learning of Norman Osborn’s death and Peter’s visit to Osborn Industries, Tim had been covertly watching from within the Wayne Group, convinced Harry’s invitation to Peter after only two days had an ulterior motive. Now was the perfect time to expose Osborn.

However, most of the time, Harry was busy handling documents and working on his computer, and Peter didn’t look bored either—after a while, he pulled out homework left by their professor and started working.

Tim was amazed.

This was a nerd?

Occasionally, shareholders or their faction managers came to Harry for intel. Although Harry looked pale and delicate, he was sharp and cunning. Even Peter could occasionally throw a sharp retort that caught others off guard, reshaping Tim’s impression.

His new “little brother” was a quick-witted nerd in the right environment.

Yes, Tim had planted bugs in Osborn Industries.

When Peter finally left, Tim relaxed slightly, handing the bugging channel to Barbara and asking her to keep watching. Then he donned the Red Robin mantle and plunged into Gotham’s night.

He was still investigating the smuggling incident at the docks two nights ago. Although all the escaped immigrants had been caught and deported, the lack of leads made Tim suspicious.

He started with the dock workers who had contact with the suspects. It was a massive task, and Tim had slept less than eight hours in two days, broken up into pieces.

Rubbing his tired brow, Tim swung through the red-light district with his grappling hook.

This area was usually patrolled by the Red Hood. Jason, having grown up on the streets, treated all the downtrodden equally—whether homeless scavengers or fallen women from the red-light district, he offered help without discrimination.

But Jason had received a call at noon and had to go out to investigate something, leaving Tim in charge temporarily.

Compared to usual, the area was surprisingly quiet, which was unusual.

The red-light district always had some riffraff lurking for some reason. Women leaving clubs immediately hailed taxis—club bouncers only watched the immediate vicinity outside, so walking home was a last resort.

Tim perked up and wandered around. As he passed a narrow alley, he heard the sound of a fight inside.

That was more like it. Satisfied, Tim rushed in, only to have a large object thrown at him. Thinking he was under attack, he dodged. The object hit the ground with a heavy thud, and Tim saw it was a person.

He froze.

He recognized the face.

It was a police officer.

Tim looked deeper into the alley and saw a striking red-and-blue figure.

A faint buzzing came from behind. Tim turned to see a yellow Beetle blocking the alley’s entrance.

No matter—Red Robin had no intention of running.

Gripping his staff, he said gravely, “Gotham isn’t your playground, red-and-blue spider!”

Peter’s foot slipped, and he crashed to the ground with a thunderous fall.