The last thing I remember was the screech of tires. Then pain. Then nothing.
I shouldn't be breathing right now. Shouldn't be feeling the soft cotton sheets against my skin or hearing the distant hum of what sounds like city traffic. My eyes feel heavy, like they've been closed for days, but I force them open anyway.
Sunlight streams through floor-to-ceiling windows of what appears to be a luxury apartment. Not my apartment. My place was a shoebox studio in Chicago with a mattress on the floor and takeout containers piling up in the kitchen. This place has modern furnishings, minimalist art on the walls, and a view of—wait, is that the Empire State Building?
I bolt upright, head spinning with the sudden movement. My hands—they don't look like my hands. They're the same shape, but different somehow. More defined. I stumble out of bed toward what I assume is the bathroom, my legs unsteady beneath me.
The mirror confirms what I'm already suspecting is impossible.
James Franco's face stares back at me. No, not exactly Franco—but the face of the character he played. Harry Osborn. I'm looking at Harry fucking Osborn.
"What the hell?" I whisper, and even my voice sounds different. Richer, smoother.
I splash cold water on my face, half-expecting the hallucination to wash away. It doesn't. I touch my cheekbones, my jaw, run hands through hair that's styled in a way I've never worn mine. This isn't a dream. The cold water on my face, the solid marble counter under my fingertips—it all feels too real.
My memory flickers to that final moment—pushing a kid out of the way of an oncoming truck. I remember the impact, the white-hot pain, and then... this. Waking up in a body that isn't mine, in a place I've never been.
A soft knock at the door startles me.
"Mr. Osborn? Are you awake, sir? It's nearly noon."
The voice is formal, British, elderly. I stare at the bathroom door like it might burst into flames.
"Uh, yeah," I call out, trying to sound normal. "I'll be right out."
I splash more water on my face, taking deep breaths. Okay. Logic this out. Either I'm dead and this is some weird afterlife, I'm in a coma dreaming all this, or somehow—impossibly—I've ended up in the body of Harry Osborn in what appears to be the Marvel universe.
The third option sounds the craziest, but it's the one that feels right. I know these movies, these comics. I've spent half my life immersed in this world. If I'm really here, in this body, at this time...
I need to figure out when this is. Which version of the Marvel universe. What happens next.
Stepping out of the bathroom, I find clothes laid out on the bed—designer jeans, a button-up shirt, a casual blazer. I dress quickly, my fingers fumbling with unfamiliar movements in an unfamiliar body.
The main door opens to a spacious living area where an elderly man in a crisp suit is arranging breakfast on a dining table. He looks up, and I recognize him immediately—Bernard. Harry's butler in the Sam Raimi Spider-Man films. But he looks different—this isn't the Raimi universe.
"Good morning, Mr. Osborn," he says. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd sleep the day away."
I force a smile, trying to look natural. "Sorry about that. Late night."
Bernard nods, seemingly unsurprised. "Indeed. Though I might suggest moderating your celebrations in the future. Your father called twice this morning."
My father. Norman Osborn. The Green Goblin. My heart rate doubles.
"Did he say what he wanted?" I ask, approaching the table cautiously.
"The usual. Reminding you about the board meeting tomorrow, expressing his disappointment about some test results." Bernard's expression softens slightly. "I told him you were indisposed."
I nod, grateful. "Thanks, Bernard."
He pours coffee into a mug and slides it toward me. "Will you be going out today, sir?"
Good question. Where would Harry Osborn go on a—I glance at a digital clock on the wall—Thursday?
"Maybe. I need to check my schedule." I sip the coffee, buying time. "What's the date today?"
Bernard raises an eyebrow but doesn't comment on the strange question. "May 20th, sir."
"And the year?" I add, trying to make it sound like a joke.
"2010, Mr. Osborn. Are you feeling alright?"
2010....
My mind races through Marvel chronology. Iron Man had already happened. The Incredible Hulk too. If this is the MCU, then—
"Iron Man 2," I mutter before I can stop myself.
"Sir?"
I shake my head. "Nothing. Just remembered a movie I wanted to see." I take another sip of coffee. "Has there been anything in the news lately about Tony Stark?"
Bernard gives me an odd look but answers anyway. "The Stark Expo opened last night. It's all over the papers. Your father seemed quite interested in it."
The timeline clicks into place. May 2010. Iron Man 2 is happening right now. And if I remember correctly, Peter Parker is about to be bitten by a radioactive spider any day now. Peter Parker, who in this universe, appears to be friends with Harry Osborn. With me.
I need to find out more about my life here. My connections. What version of Harry Osborn I am.
"Bernard, do I have any, uh, friends coming over today?"
"Not that I'm aware of. Though Miss Watson did call yesterday while you were out. She mentioned something about a science exhibition at the university tomorrow."
Miss Watson. Mary Jane. And a science exhibition—that could be the one where Peter gets bitten. The pieces are falling into place.
"Great, thanks. I think I'll just take it easy today. Maybe catch up on some reading."
Bernard nods, seemingly relieved that I'm not rushing out to party. "Very good, sir. I've taken the liberty of organizing your father's files as requested. They're in your study."
Files? I didn't request any files. But Harry—the original Harry—must have.
"Perfect. I'll check them out."
After breakfast, Bernard leaves me alone, mentioning he'll be back in the evening to prepare dinner. I immediately start exploring the apartment, looking for clues about who I am now.
The study is immaculate, with a state-of-the-art computer setup and shelves of books that look expensive but unread. On the desk sits a stack of folders labeled "Oscorp Cross-Species Genetics Initiative."
My heart pounds as I open the top folder. Inside are detailed reports on experiments combining human and animal DNA. Specifically, spiders. This is it—the research that creates Spider-Man.
But why did Harry have these files? Was he just curious, or was there more to it?
I boot up the computer, thankful when it doesn't require a password. The browser history shows searches for Stark Industries technology, experimental genetics, and something called "Project Rebirth"—the Super Soldier program that created Captain America.
A notification pops up on the screen—a calendar reminder for tomorrow: "Midtown High School Field Trip to Oscorp Labs - 10 AM."
The field trip where Peter Parker gets bitten by the spider.
I lean back in the chair, mind racing with possibilities. I'm here, in the Marvel universe, with knowledge of everything that's about to happen. Every hero, every villain, every world-ending catastrophe.
And I'm Harry Osborn—son of a supervillain, friend to Spider-Man.
But I don't have to follow Harry's path. I don't have to become the Goblin, don't have to be just a side character in someone else's story.
I look again at the files on cross-species genetics, then at the calendar notification.
Tomorrow, Peter Parker is supposed to be bitten by a radioactive spider. But what if it wasn't Peter? What if it was me instead?
The thought sends a rush of adrenaline through me. I could become Spider-Man. I could use that power, combined with Oscorp resources, to become something even greater.
I think of my old life—ordinary, unremarkable. I think of the heroes I've always admired, especially Batman. The Dark Knight. A symbol of justice with no actual powers beyond his own training and technology.
But with spider powers and Oscorp technology, I could be more than Batman. I could be Batman Beyond.
A plan begins to form. I'll need to ensure I'm the one the spider bites tomorrow. I'll need to prepare for what comes after. I'll need to start building my arsenal, my persona.
I pull up a new document on the computer and begin typing a list of what I'll need. Tomorrow, everything changes. Tomorrow, I stop being just Harry Osborn.
Tomorrow, I begin my journey to become the hero this world needs.