Four days had passed since the meeting with Peter and Amy. Four days of methodical execution, calculated rest, and inching forward in Ethan's quietly expanding web.
The first priority had been finishing the Felicia Harper identity. With the foundation already built, it had only taken another day to finalize everything—her new ID profile now complete, with social security number, historical tax records, and a matching digital presence. The birth certificate was subtly embedded in a New York hospital's old archived files, her high school diploma seeded through a long-defunct charter school Ethan had fabricated under one of his secondary aliases.
By the end of day two, "Felicia Harper" was as real as any person in the state database.
Next came the printshop. Using the blueprints he'd drafted a few days ago, Ethan reached out through another alias to a discreet construction company that specialized in low-profile jobs—no questions asked. They operated in a gray market space, favored by fixer-types and people with enough money to discourage scrutiny.
The project had been accepted under a simple story: a private renovation for a future bookstore-slash-archival center. They didn't need to know that the wiring specs included a secure server core, or that the back room's reinforcement plan could handle explosive-grade containment.
He paid upfront. In cash. The company didn't complain.
By the fourth day, demolition was underway.
And still, Ethan was in motion.
He visited Rachel every other evening. Her condition was still shaky, but stabilizing. They'd spoken about grounding exercises and sleep strategies. Ethan made sure to show just enough vulnerability—enough human empathy—to keep her from seeing the calculations beneath his encouragement.
Amy was easier. Her powers were still manifesting, but Peter's lesson helped her hide and control them, and her parents had seen how much better she was doing, how calm she'd become. They agreed to discharge her, and she was set to return to school the coming Monday.
Everything was falling into place.
Using the Samuel Rourke identity, Ethan had officially launched three LLCs over the past week—each registered with unique post boxes, service accounts, and web domains already primed for future development.
CySpace would be his social network seed—an early version of something akin to Facebook. It would start small, as a college and community connection tool, just enough to gather names and interests. Even if the tech wasn't ready for mass usage, Ethan would spend the next two years building its infrastructure quietly.
NeoCore Systems was more critical. This company would be the keystone for his technological ambitions. NeoCore's first push would be into medical advancements—targeting fields like automated diagnostics, lab equipment, and surgical robotics. The medical space was crowded, but not hostile. Not yet. He could innovate here without immediately drawing the ire of Stark Industries or Oscorp.
Eventually, NeoCore would diversify. Ethan had already outlined future product trees—wearable scanners, next-gen cybersecurity suites, adaptive learning interfaces.
But for now, he needed slow but profitable growth.
Lastly, there was Insight—a media and publishing shell company. What the Daily Bugle was to aggressive, loud journalism, Insight would be to data, precision, and quiet control of narratives. Once mobile devices became commonplace, CySpace and Insight would merge into a single behemoth, granting Ethan control of not just stories, but platforms.
There were other ambitions. Other fields he planned to reach into eventually—defense, energy, even space.
But for now, these three pillars were enough.
He was sixteen. He had time.
His parents had been busy too. After receiving their settlement money—$1.2 million after taxes—they'd begun house hunting with enthusiasm. Ethan had politely declined the invitations to join them, citing schoolwork and other distractions.
He never told them he didn't care where they settled. Not because he was cold, but because he was building his own sanctuary and could possibly leave them. The printshop. The safehouse in Newark. His own network.
Home was a concept he reserved for places he could feel safe and protected.
By noon that day, he'd cleared his tasks and decided to take a walk. It was one of the rare days he allowed himself that luxury—a slow, unhurried pace down the streets of Brooklyn, hoodie up, hands in his pockets.
His path took him toward a café with decent black coffee and an old-school counter jukebox that still played quietly in the afternoons. A peaceful place to draft code and catch up on data harvesting.
But as he turned onto the block, he felt it.
A chill. A presence.
Not danger, exactly—but something watching.
He didn't turn his head. Not immediately. Years of reading Marvel comics, plus survival instincts honed by paranoia and planning, told him: don't look when you feel it. Wait until you control the angle.
He turned down the next alleyway, a narrow corridor between two old brownstones.
No one followed. No footsteps. No shadows creeping behind him.
He looked up.
And someone landed in front of him.
Smooth. Cat-like.
Felicia Hardy—Black Cat—straightened from her crouch, sleek suit catching the narrow light. Her silver hair was tied back today, and her mask still in place, but her smirk was unmistakable.
"Well," she said, brushing imaginary dust from her shoulder, "you've been busy, kid."
Ethan didn't move. He didn't even blink.
"I figured you'd show up eventually," he said. "Didn't think you'd drop out of the sky, though."
Felicia tilted her head. "Dramatic yet stylish entrances are kind of my thing."
He took a step closer. "You get what I was looking for?"
She pulled a small metallic canister from her belt—sealed tight, black-marked with a containment sigil. She didn't hand it to him. Just held it up.
"You first," she said. "Tell me everything's ready."
Ethan smirked. "Oh, Ms. Hardy… of course, everything's more than ready. If you get changed and follow me back home, I can show you everything."
It had begun with a smirk and a deal; it only seemed fitting it would begin again the same way.