"Medication time, Mr. Osborn," said the male nurse carrying a tray, as he walked into Harry's room.
Harry sat up in his terribly uncomfortable bed, unrested. Under the top sheets were straps that stretched across the bed, the buckles at the end hanging loosely off the sides. He remembered being held down by them his first night there, dragged there kicking and screaming, the voice egging him on and calling him a weakling for allowing himself to be subdued.
He remembered how terrified he'd been as he was strapped down, faces resembling the Goblin mask everywhere, all of them talking at once, but all he could hear was the voice taunting him.
Harry supposed that he must have sounded crazy, and the morning after, he'd thought that maybe being there was a good thing. Maybe they could help him. But that illusion quickly faded; the taunts got worse, and more frequent. Without access to alcohol to drink his fears away, his mind had nothing to do except to think about why he was there.
"What's wrong, Osborn? Your imaginary friend doesn't like the drugs," the nurse said. Harry didn't look at him, but took the paper cups from the tray and swallowed the pills, drinking water afterward, then allowed the nurse to check that he hadn't hidden them.
As the nurse started to leave, he said,"Hey, Osborn, you want a copy of the newspaper? Your friend Spider-Man made page one again."
Harry looked at him with an expression that said 'Go to hell'. The nurse did a double-take and cringed. Something about his gaze suggested more than just anger and insanity. The nurse had the feeling that he didn't want to know what it was, and left.
'Why do you put up with these idiots, these fools?', the voice said.
"Maybe if you stopped talking to me and left me alone, I wouldn't have to," Harry answered out loud.
'It doesn't really matter. You won't be here long.'
"What are you talking about," Harry asked.
'You're getting out of here, Harry. Soon. Very soon.'
"We're about to land, Mr. Sinclair," the flight attendant said. The man in the chair opened his eyes and looked out the window. He felt a pang of homesickness at seeing the familiar New York skyline. He'd been away far too long, but he was home now. He checked his watch.
"Passengers of flight 779, Paris France to New York City, New York, we are about to land. Please secure your safety belts," said the pilot over the intercom.
Five minutes later, the man, wearing a tan trench coat and a black designer suit with a deep green tie, got into a limosine outside JFK airport. He was dropped off in front of an apartment building in the financial district. In his apartment, he saw that as he had instructed, classified documents listing the locations of several military warehouses had been set on the coffee table.
He walked over to them and picked up a file as he made is way to the almost wall-length window. He flipped through the file, closed it, and pulled out his cell phone. He dialed a number that belonged to a phone almost directly across from where he stood; Oscorp Industries.
"Hello," said a female voice on the other end.
"I'm back. Is everything ready," asked the man.
"It is. Welcome back to New York, Mr. Osborn."