Chapter 3
I tucked myself away in the gallery, in the farthest, darkest corner of the enormous auditorium, turning my seat into a small island of self-imposed exile. Under the hum of the projector and the professor's monotonous drone, I methodically folded paper modules. My hands, already well acquainted with this strange craft, moved on autopilot while my mind desperately tried to build a wall between itself and everything else in the room. A lecture on theater history. Lord, what utterly useless, life-divorced, common-sense-allergic, concentrated garbage.
Me. A thirty-eight-year-old man whose hands knew the weight of a hammer, the roughness of wood, and the drag of a computer mouse, now trapped in the scrawny body of a snotty college kid. In a world where a Chitauri armada or a purple titan with a genocide obsession could descend on the city at any moment, I was being made to sit here and listen to someone talk about catharsis in ancient Greek tragedy. The absurdity was so thick and viscous you could have cut it with a knife and spread it on toast.
Around me stretched a sleepy kingdom of student apathy. Everyone existed in their own private bubble, physically present but mentally miles away. The guy to my left, a textbook geek in glasses and a faded logo T-shirt, was hiding behind his laptop screen. Judging by the quiet periodic snorting and the way his shoulders shook, he was watching some sitcom and had completely tuned out the lecture. The girl beside him, acid-pink hair and a nose ring, was deep in a furious texting war on her phone, her fingers flying across the screen at a pace that suggested she was tapping out a Morse code SOS about the end of the world. And the hulk directly in front of me, whose bull neck took up half my field of vision, was shamelessly asleep with a thick textbook tented over his face, emitting the faintest trace of a snore. Against that backdrop, my quiet little hobby, which bothered no one, produced almost no sound, and gave off no smell, had somehow managed to attract unwanted attention.
"Mr. Thompson, would you be so kind as to tell us the key difference between Stanislavski's acting method and Strasberg's method?" The professor's voice, dry and creaky as an ungreased door hinge, tore me ruthlessly from my paper-folding meditation.
He stood at the lectern, a gray-haired man around fifty, trim, in a severe tweed jacket. His sharp, intelligent eyes behind thin metal-framed glasses promised nothing good. He wasn't some doddering old man. You could feel the old school in him, the breeding, the absolute zero tolerance for sloppiness. And he had obviously clocked my quiet little module factory a long time ago.
"No idea, professor," I answered in a flat, indifferent tone, purely on autopilot, not looking up from the fold I was working on. It was only when a barely audible ripple of laughter moved through the auditorium that I realized how bold and defiant that had sounded. I slowly raised my head, met his expectant, slightly narrowed gaze, and decided I needed to walk it back fast. "Sorry. I've been sick the last few days and missed classes, so unfortunately I'm behind on this topic."
Yeah. Sick. With alcoholism. And honestly, I wasn't lying. The World Health Organization officially recognizes alcoholism as a disease. The fact that for John Thompson this had been the first and, sadly, last bender of his short, unremarkable life, well, those were insignificant details the professor had no business knowing.
"I see." The professor did not look impressed by my excuse. His gaze dropped to my hands, where an almost-finished module sat. "And now, Mr. Thompson, you're folding origami so diligently in my lecture in order to, what, improve your fine motor skills as part of your therapeutic recovery?"
The skeptically raised eyebrow promised nothing good. I genuinely liked this man. Straight as a rail, no detours, no passive-aggressive games. He had laid out the problem plainly and was now waiting for an equally plain, coherent answer, not the usual student fumbling. I had to improvise.
"I'm making a gift for a nurse who basically pulled me back from the other side," I spun the story on the fly, letting real-sounding gratitude bleed into my voice. "We talked a lot while I was laid up, and it turned out she's into origami. So I decided to make her a kusudama as a thank-you. Apparently they work as vases for dried flowers. But I am listening to your lecture, professor, don't doubt it. The last thing you covered was innovations in stage lighting introduced in European avant-garde theater in the late twentieth century, specifically the work of Josef Svoboda and his concept of 'living scenography.' I can name his major productions if you'd like."
Turns out John's memory wasn't as useless as I'd thought. But still. First real social outing, and I was already lying through my teeth. Although, come on, I was sitting quietly, not bothering a soul, and still managing to filter information with half an ear. How was I any worse than these slackers openly scrolling through their gadgets?
To my relief, Professor Weekley seemed satisfied. He gave a low grunt, studied me for a long moment as though deciding whether to keep pressing, then finally nodded and returned to his lecture. For the remaining two classes I prudently buried myself in an even more remote corner, hidden behind a classmate's broad back, and kept a low profile. By the end of the school day, my worn backpack was packed tight with neat stacks of paper modules, exactly two hundred and seventy of them, enough for nine complete kusudamas.
Stepping out of the stuffy college walls onto the sun-soaked street, I ran through the day's information as I walked. And I don't mean the coursework. What did I need "Film Theory" for when, at any given moment, a live-action Michael Bay movie could kick off right outside? What interested me was people. Specifically, one red-haired girl who had, in a sense, been the cause of my predecessor's untimely death. Mary Jane Watson.
She stood near the entrance, surrounded by a crowd of friends, laughing. The life of the party, the unofficial ringleader, the alpha in her little pride. Moderately pretty, though a good chunk of her glow came from skillfully applied makeup covering pale skin and freckles. Moderately sociable, moderately curvy. Objectively, a solid seven and a half out of ten. I genuinely couldn't understand what John had been so hung up about. Then again, everything was relative. Against a sea of washed-out, frankly disheveled girls from our year, she really did look like a Hollywood transplant. But step onto any Manhattan street and within half an hour you'd pass a dozen women just as striking, if not more so. Alexander, the thirty-eight-year-old man living inside this borrowed body, looked at her and saw not a goddess but simply a girl who knew her worth too well and used her looks accordingly.
I had no idea how closely this version of MJ matched her canonical portrayals, but in most of them she was an ambiguous character. Flighty, ricocheting between men, often manufacturing drama out of thin air. And here? I squinted, watching as she said goodbye to her friends and moved toward a black Audi polished to a mirror shine.
Beside the car, a dark-haired young man in an expensive suit was waiting with barely contained impatience. Their embrace was somehow staged, performed for an invisible audience. Her smile was camera-flash bright but gave off no warmth whatsoever. His hand on her waist was more possessive than tender. The kiss was quick, almost perfunctory, a peck on the cheek. And for one split second, as Mary Jane pulled back before snapping the mask of adoration back into place, I caught something unmistakable in her eyes. Boredom. Plain, all-consuming, soul-crushing boredom. Interesting. The guy, by contrast, looked tense, as though terrified she might vanish into thin air at any moment. Expensive car, boutique clothes, and yet his gaze was crammed full of insecurity and the fear of losing his shiny prize.
MJ was already reaching for the car door, but I hadn't dragged myself to this damned college just to leave empty-handed.
"Mary Jane, wait, please!" I called out, picking up my pace slightly and keeping my voice friendly and harmless.
She turned, and polite bewilderment flickered across her face. She clearly had no idea who I was.
"Um, sorry, do we know each other?"
"Thompson. John Thompson, we're in the same theater history group," I said. "Could you tell me where to find a good acting tutor? You're the best in our year, so you probably know someone decent."
"Oh, right, Thompson! You're the one who was making origami for a nurse today!" she said, her enthusiasm kicking up a notch in that slightly performed way. "As for a tutor, I can recommend one, but he charges a lot. Here, take down the number."
The number of some tutor could go straight to hell. My actual goal was standing a meter away from her and currently furrowing its brows.
"Thanks, and could you give me your number too, just in case?" I added, keeping my tone casual. "In case I can't afford him, I can at least consult with you as the resident expert. It's just that I won't be around for the next few days. I have things I can't put off."
"Ahem, MJ, we need to go." There it was. The ice cracked. Jealousy is a reliable catalyst. The guy stepped closer and placed a proprietary hand on her shoulder.
"Sorry, and you are?" I turned to him with genuine-looking curiosity. Since he had inserted himself into our conversation, that gave me every right to redirect things his way.
"Her boyfriend," he said, teeth barely parted, a slight frown creasing his forehead. I watched his gaze slide over my worn hoodie and cheap jeans and then visibly relax. He saw no threat in the skinny, unremarkable student standing in front of him.
"The boyfriend has a name, right?" I extended my hand with my most disarming smile. "I'm John Thompson. Classmate. Though you already caught that."
"Harry Osborn," he answered, shaking my hand with obvious reluctance. His grip was weak and limp, like a wet fish.
"Osborn? You're probably sick of hearing this, but, you wouldn't happen to be the son of that Norman Osborn? Founder of Oscorp?"
"You have absolutely no idea how sick of it I am," he said, and for a moment the weariness and bitterness in his voice were completely unguarded. "I could go on about that all day, but MJ and I are genuinely in a hurry. Let her give you the tutor's number and we'll be on our way."
Mission accomplished. I had my confirmation. This really was Harry Osborn. Mary Jane was, with ninety-nine percent certainty, with him for the money and the name. And Harry himself was a classic golden boy drowning in complexes, desperately trying to crawl out from under the shadow of a powerful father. None of this information was going to waste.
But as I walked back toward my apartment, the initial satisfaction of the successfully executed operation gave way to a cold, clammy feeling of dread. One thing to know you're living in the Marvel universe. A completely different thing to personally shake hands with someone whose destiny was to become one of this city's most notorious supervillains. Harry Osborn. In some versions, the Green Goblin. In others, simply the Goblin.
Fragments of comics and movies surfaced in my mind. The glider. Pumpkin bombs. The unhinged laughter and superhuman physical specs. And Norman Osborn, his father. The first and most dangerous Goblin. A man who would stop at nothing. I had just stepped into their personal space, even briefly, even under the most innocent pretense. But what if that short exchange had been noticed? What if Norman was paranoid enough to track every contact his son made? Ridiculous, obviously. If anything, the paranoia was mine. I was nothing to them, a smear on a windshield. But the sheer reality of it, that I was no longer just an observer but now a minor participant in this much larger game, unsettled me in a way I hadn't expected. The players here operated on a completely different level.
Suddenly the whole venture felt like the height of stupidity. Why had I gotten involved? To confirm what was already obvious? To make sure this really was that Harry? I should have been keeping as much distance as possible from all these people, all these characters with their tragic and dangerous arcs. I needed to keep my head down and keep crafting until I was strong enough that a rustling in a dark alley didn't make me flinch. But it was too late for that. Contact had been made. And somewhere in the back of my mind, a nasty little worm of fear had already started to stir. What if this contact had consequences?
Returning home under the weight of those thoughts, I assembled the nine remaining kusudamas in about an hour, as if working on a conveyor belt, and brought my balance up to the long-awaited 50 OP. Exactly half the journey. But what came next? I had no interest in tackling higher-complexity origami, which meant I needed to create something else. Something real. Something my hands remembered how to make. But for that I needed materials and tools. And for them, money.
I opened the laptop. Online banking greeted me with a brutal reality check: $17.35. Seventeen dollars. Plus a ten and a handful of coins in my pocket. That was my entire net worth. It wasn't enough for craft supplies, let alone food for a few days. The realization of my own poverty hit below the belt. In my past life I'd been self-sufficient. Never rich, but always able to cover what I needed. And here? I was flat on the bottom.
"The very thought makes my skin crawl, but looks like I'll have to make a deal with the devil," I muttered, pulling on my only decent sneakers.
The sign reading "New York Central Bank" on the facade of the grand Manhattan building gleamed with false gold and pressed down on you with its sheer scale. Inside was even worse: cold echoing marble, the quiet whisper of air conditioners, and clerks in expensive suits wearing stretched shark smiles. In my past life I had hated loans. And John, going by his memories of a foster mother permanently buried in debt, shared that dislike. For both of us, the bank was a temple of usury, a place where people's dreams were taken hostage and handed back wrapped in beautiful words about "opportunity."
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I approached the counter. A young guy in a perfectly ironed suit, hair styled strand by painstaking strand, heard my request for a credit card and lit up as if I'd offered him eternal life. He rattled through a pitch about "incredible opportunities," "interest-free periods," and "flexible terms," barely registering my status as an unemployed orphan student. The latter detail did make him dial things back slightly, but he still offered a maximum monthly limit of two thousand dollars. Two thousand. Just like that. To a penniless student.
"What's the catch?" pounded through my head. Back home, that kind of generosity would have concealed draconian interest rates and a dozen pages of fine print loaded with traps. But here, the annual rate was only 7%. By American standards, highway robbery. By mine, ridiculously low. I nodded silently and signed the papers. A system that handed out money this easily felt dangerous and reckless to me. But right now I had no choice.
Yes, I hated this. I was built to live within my means, to earn, save, and invest in what was genuinely necessary. Debt had always been synonymous with slavery to me. And now I was voluntarily slapping these shackles on myself. The hand holding the pen trembled slightly. Everything inside me protested. This was wrong, it went against every principle I had. But then I thought about the empty refrigerator, the lack of basic materials and tools, the helplessness. Principles are a luxury for people who have a choice. I didn't have one right now. And besides, this wasn't a loan for a new iPhone or designer clothes. This was an investment. An investment in my survival and my future. I pressed down hard on the pen and left my new, alien signature on the paper. Deal with the devil, concluded.
Leaving the cold marble hell with a piece of plastic in my pocket, I felt a mixture of disgust and relief. I headed straight for a hardware superstore. The plan was simple: buy a little of everything. Wooden stock, PVC pipes for a makeshift potato gun, a basic set of hand tools. I needed to figure out what different types of craft were actually worth to the system.
On the way I pulled out my phone and called Billy, the owner of the hot dog stand where John had worked part-time every other day, with a shift coming up tomorrow.
"Billy, hey, it's John. Listen, I got seriously sick. Doctor said I need a couple of weeks of bed rest. No idea when I'll be able to come in. Yeah, I'm really sorry. I'll be back as soon as I can."
I ended the call and put away my phone. Low-paying work and a pointless college lecture schedule could both wait. For the next few days, I was dedicating myself entirely to my own agenda, my new and strange power. My craft.
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