Once he heard a noise coming from the other side of the building, Simon Stacy knew he was done for. He thought his plan would be foolproof. He'd been extra careful to get into the police station completely unnoticed, but he figured he probably tripped a silent alarm during the break-in. No doubt that noise was a fleet of officers, and he knew one wrong move was game over. There was a scuffing coming from outside the door. They were already here? He ducked behind a filing cabinet just as the door flew open, making sure to clutch tightly the manila folder. This was the reason he dared do something as dangerous as burgle the New York City Police Department; if they weren't going to tell the truth about his sister's death, he would take it into his own hands to seek it out. It had shattered his family; her boyfriend, Peter, blamed himself, and Simon's single mother seemed to be struggling to hold on since then, hoping that none of her other kids would die like their father and sister; at the hands of monsters, villains. The city was full of them, and since the resident hero decided to hang it up a couple of years ago, crime had boomed. He wanted to be an officer, much like his father was, but he didn't want to wait until he was older to get access to these files. A small stream of police flowed into the room, and he managed to silently duck out of the room under a blind spot. 

Simon kept his head down as he cautiously traversed the maze of hallways, looking for safe places as he made his way to the room he'd snuck in through. Just as he rounded a corner, he saw a couple of officers round the corner opposite of him. He swiftly stepped back, and opened the closest door to his left; a broom closet. He kept his breathing shallow until he heard the footfalls of his pursuers receding down the hall where he'd come from. Just as he was about to step out when his phone went off, ringer and all; he'd forgotten to set it to silent before he arrived. In a panic, he picked it up without checking the caller in question. "Hello," he whispered harshly. There was silence for a moment, then a cough from the other end of the line. "Hey, Simon?" It was his sister's ex.

"Oh, hey Pete. It's late. What are you doing up?" Simon poked his head out of the door and peeked around to make sure no one had heard his phone. The coast seemed clear, and he snuck out of the closet. 

"I, uh… I just had a feeling that I should call you, you know. Check up on you." Simon sighed, but before he could make a retort, Peter cut him off, apparently able to read his mind. "Yeah, I know you don't want to be treated like a kid, I get it. But this is different. I just thought I should… I wanted to make sure you're okay. You okay?" Looking around to make sure the coast was clear, Simon breathed into his phone, "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine, Pete." He stealthily moved around the corner. The coast was clear, and he continued to wriggle doorknobs, making sure he had a quick out in case he saw the cops. Peter coughed once again, and Simon moved his phone away from his ear, away from the harsh sound.

"Look, if you're going through something, or just need someone to talk to… Uh, don't hesitate to call me, alright?" Simon held his phone out to make sure it was the correct number. They hadn't spoken to each other in at least two years; why would he call and say something like that out of the blue? He paused, then heard footfalls somewhere behind him. Thankfully, the first door he tried was unlocked, and he quickly ducked through the doorway. 

"Thanks, I'll keep you posted." He held his breath as the disembodied sound of footsteps passed the door. He and Peter mumbled their good-byes and good-nights to each other before he hastily hung up his phone and slipped it into his pocket, but not before turning it to silent. As soon as he did, he was able to notice the room he found his way into. The lights were off, but the moonlight streaming through the window was enough. The room was filled with bookcases and filing cabinets, all covered in dust and cobwebs. He didn't know why, but he couldn't shake the feeling he should stay here for the time being. So, he sat down behind an old wooden desk and opened his folder, laying out the papers in front of him.

It boiled his blood to have to read the account of his sister's death, but he gritted his teeth and pressed on, hoping to find a even a shred of something not recounted in the news broadcasts. He knew how it happened, where it happened: the clock tower, the fight between the hero and the villain (which the reports only called 'The Goblin'), and that while his sister's fall was technically collateral damage, the hero 'proved insufficient to rescue her before her death'. Simon wiped the tears stinging his eyes. The tabloids, and especially the news, highlighted the story in a way that put the hero in the wrong, and while this police report still seemed biased to some degree, it spelled a bit of a different story; it might not have necessarily been the hero's fault. But who was this villain whose actions tore his sister from his life? 

He stood up and began to pace the floor, studying the room while he tried to clear his mind of the cloud of anger. He stopped, however, when he noticed something odd. None of the filing cabinets had labels except for one, sitting alone in the corner. He marched up to it and read it: Villain Records. It seemed too good to be true. He pulled the handle to check if it was locked, and to his surprise it slid open with a small squeak. This seemed too convenient. He looked around to make sure no one was hiding in the shadows, then flipped through the files. Folder after folder, name after name, but nothing related to his mystery villain. A small prickle of pain shot briefly through Simon’s hand, and he cringed for a moment. He examined it, quickly assessing the damage. ‘What is that,’ he thought to himself, ‘a bug bite? Probably a spider or something.’ He could deal with that later; he was too close to stop now. He kept searching.

Finally, he stopped when he reached one labeled with a name he recognized from a news broadcast a few years ago, soon before the hero's retirement. It was the name of a team of terrorists, supervillains, marked with a large number six on the front. He flipped through the papers. Some names he recognized; Beck, Octavius, others he didn't; Systevich, Toomes. He flipped through all of them before a spark of recognition flared up in him at the sight of one of their pictures, and he took out a paper from the middle of the folder. It was only one paper, a short write-up of his mystery villain's crimes, but there was a small section revealing his true, former identity. Simon's hands shook, and he had to stop himself from crumpling the sheet. He didn't know how he would find him, but Harry Osborn would pay for what he did to Gwen, no matter the cost. If the Goblin didn't hold anything back in a fight, neither would he.