Green Goblin

They tell it in New York like a devil story, because that is what it is. The devil does not arrive with horns; he comes cackling out of the night sky on a bat-winged glider, wearing a grinning green face that might not be a mask. Norman Osborn had already conquered the city the respectable way: patents, boardrooms, a tower with his name on the skyline, a son he barely saw. Then, in a sealed Oscorp lab, he drank his own untested miracle, and it detonated in his blood: strength past human limits, a mind honed to a razor, and a thin green thread of madness stitched through everything. The Green Goblin became the shadow over the city's brightest hero. He learned the name of the boy behind the web-mask, struck at everything he loved, and one night on a bridge a girl named Gwen Stacy fell. They have buried the Goblin more than once; the grave never keeps him. Norman Osborn is the disguise, the old-timers whisper. The thing on the glider, patient and grinning and always circling back, that is the truth.