"Harry's dead!"
"..."
A few days later, one quiet afternoon, Hawk was busy following Gwen's instructions on how to rearrange a corner of the garden when Peter suddenly swung in wearing his red-and-blue suit. He startled Gwen so badly she nearly dropped the watering can.
Before she could even react, Peter yanked off his mask and spoke in a low, heavy voice.
Hawk froze.
Gwen, still recovering from the jump scare, froze again at the words.
It took her a moment to process. She turned toward Peter, who now sat slumped on the porch floor, hands over his head, shoulders heavy with grief.
"What happened?" Gwen whispered to Hawk.
"It's about the Osborn visit I told you about," Hawk replied.
"Oh…" Gwen remembered, then carefully asked Peter: "It's because of your blood, isn't it?"
Peter lifted his head and nodded.
The story had twisted from what should have been.
In the original flow of fate, Peter never gave Harry his blood. That refusal pushed Harry into becoming the Green Goblin, and ultimately led to his death by Peter's own hand.
But this time… Peter had given it.
And Harry still died.
Hawk frowned, puzzled.
"Wait. Didn't you warn him first? Tell him your blood might be poison to him?"
"I did."
"And?"
"Yesterday afternoon he called me—he was so happy. He said it worked. He said he was healed."
"Hold up," Hawk cut in, staring at him. "So he injected himself yesterday?"
Peter nodded. "Yes. Yesterday afternoon."
"And this morning he turned up dead?"
"...Yes."
"Then how is that your fault?"
Peter blinked at him, startled.
"If he'd died right after the injection, maybe. But he lasted a whole day. That's not on you."
Peter's hands slowly dropped from his head. He just stared at Hawk, speechless.
"Am I wrong?" Hawk pressed.
Peter stammered, "But… if it wasn't the serum, then what killed him?"
"How would I know?" Hawk gave him a dry look. "Who found him?"
"Felicia," Peter said, getting to his feet.
"That assistant?"
"Yeah. She lives at the manor too. This morning she sent a servant to fetch him when he hadn't come down… they found him dead in his bed."
Hawk narrowed his eyes. "Dead… how?"
"I didn't ask. Felicia told me not to spread it. But I was too shaken. I had to tell someone."
Gwen finally spoke up. "She's right. If the news breaks too fast, it'll wreck Oscorp. Investors will panic."
And indeed—when the news did break three days later, stock prices plummeted like a cliff dive. Oscorp's carefully worded statements barely slowed the fall.
…
The funeral took place in the Osborn family cemetery behind the manor.
Hawk and Gwen attended, along with Peter and Mary. The service was overseen by Felicia Hardy—revealed by the press the day before as Norman Osborn's adopted daughter and Harry's heir, named in his will.
Peter confirmed it quietly. "Harry told me about her years ago. She's his sister in all but name. He never trusted anyone else."
Gwen nodded, thoughtful. Then she noticed Hawk's distant stare.
"Hawk?" she nudged.
"Hm? Oh." He blinked, then admitted, "I'm looking at the coffin."
Because that faint, familiar stench… he'd smelled it before.
Back when he visited the manor, he thought it was just Norman's grave radiating decay. But standing here now, he knew better. The same aura wasn't coming from Norman's tomb—it was seeping out of Harry's coffin.
Hawk's gaze hardened.
He leaned toward Peter. "Did they confirm a cause of death?"
"Yeah," Peter murmured. "Retroviral hyperplasia. The Osborn curse. Felicia swore the serum worked at first—but then the disease came back even worse."
Peter no longer carried the same crushing guilt. His blood had healed Harry—at least for a while. Something else had ended him.
Then came the final viewing.
Guests rose from their seats and filed past the open coffin. Harry lay in a black suit, eyes shut, face calm as if merely sleeping.
But Hawk's sharp eyes caught it—the thin wisp of black smoke coiled between Harry's brows.
And suddenly it clicked.
It wasn't Norman's grave he'd recognized before.
It was Mephisto.
That same foul trace had lingered in Africa, when the Devil Hulk fell. Hawk had dismissed it then, faint and fading. But now it curled bold and clear from Harry's body.
This wasn't the stench of death.
It was the stench of Hell.
Hawk said nothing, followed the line past the coffin, and left with the others.
Half an hour later, with the casket sealed and lowered into the ground, the funeral ended.
Hawk and Gwen skipped the reception, taking Peter and Mary back toward Queens before heading home to Manhattan.
Only once they crossed into the city did Gwen finally speak.
"Alright. Out with it."
Hawk gave her a sideways grin. "You read me that easily?"
"Please. If I didn't know you, I never would've tracked you down in Maryland. What did you find?"
He didn't hold back.
"Demons."
"What?"
"I don't think the Osborn curse is medical at all. I think it's infernal."
Gwen froze, then whispered, "That… would explain it. Peter said Harry was fine at first, then collapsed suddenly. Like something darker stepped in and finished him off."
Hawk shrugged.
But deep down, he was certain.
Hell had touched the Osborn line.
…
(End of Chapter)
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