Roy Jones vanished from this world, consumed entirely by Venom's hunger. Not a trace remained.
The symbiote, having long been deprived of a proper neurochemical meal, radiated satisfaction after devouring the hitman's tainted brain. In contrast, Ethan sat silently on the closed toilet lid in the mist-filled bathroom, pale and expressionless, his thoughts a storm of unease.
"You feeling a little off?" Venom asked, its head emerging from Ethan's shoulder like a curious shadow.
Ethan raised a hand weakly. "Don't talk… just give me a minute."
Although Venom dulled much of the sensory impact—an advantage the symbiote often prided itself on—Ethan had still just consumed a living human. Even with Venom doing the dirty work, the psychological aftermath lingered.
A minute passed in silence. Then another. Eventually, Ethan exhaled deeply and stood up. His complexion gradually returned to normal, though the grimness in his eyes hadn't faded entirely.
Sensing his host was recovering, Venom's anxiety abated. It had sworn earlier that Ethan wouldn't feel anything—not even a twinge. And it had even bet its precious chocolate stash on that claim.
Seeing Venom watching him like a guilty pet, Ethan didn't scold it. Instead, he stepped out of the bathroom, headed back to the sofa, and sat down calmly, pouring himself another cup of hot tea.
"Relax," he said in a flat tone. "I'm not gonna punish you. It still feels a bit… unnatural. But I'm not about to lose sleep over it."
Venom visibly perked up, then let out a toothy, pleased chuckle. "Knew you'd handle it, partner. You've got guts—literally now."
"Just give me the chocolate," Ethan muttered.
With a grin, Venom produced a bar of dark chocolate and handed it to him. Ethan bit into it. The velvety richness melted across his tongue, spreading warmth and calm.
Venom, self-proclaimed connoisseur and "chocolate master," had taken great care selecting the finest brands. And Ethan had to admit—this one was ridiculously good.
Before he could finish the last piece, a soft alert chimed from the upstairs computer—one of the recognition programs they'd embedded into local surveillance had picked something up.
Ethan and Venom exchanged glances, then sprinted upstairs.
The monitor displayed a grainy image from a convenience store security feed: a short-haired man in a plain coat. Even at a glance, Ethan recognized him—it was Paul Mark.
More interestingly, the image showed the same convenience store where Rick Frey had last been sighted weeks ago.
"He just walked into Rick's old haunt," Ethan muttered, narrowing his eyes. "What a coincidence. Two bodies, same place."
"Maybe they'll share the same grave," Venom growled.
No hesitation. Ethan vaulted out the window, Venom surging across his limbs mid-air. Together they took off across rooftops at full speed, a black blur moving like a shadow through New York's underbelly.
There was no time to waste.
Rick Frey was already dead. And if Paul Mark had stumbled into the basement Rick once used, he might've seen things—things that made him realize how deep the rabbit hole went. If he was panicking and hiding, finding him would become exponentially harder. Best to catch him while he was still moving.
"Damn it," Paul Mark muttered as he stepped out of his parked car and glanced around the run-down street near Queens. "This damn basement is miles from anywhere useful."
His throat was dry. He hadn't eaten or smoked in hours—hadn't even grabbed supplies in his earlier escape.
The only lit building nearby was a tired little convenience store. Its flickering sign cast a dull glow over the cracked pavement. Inside sat a greasy, overweight man with thinning hair and a stained tank top, casually flipping through a tabloid.
Paul entered.
The man behind the counter looked up. They locked eyes briefly. Then both looked away.
Paul went straight for the water cooler, grabbed a bottle, and downed half of it in one gulp.
"Ahh…" The cold liquid gave him a moment of peace.
He grabbed two more bottles and approached the counter.
"Camel pack," Paul said, gesturing at the cigarette rack behind the cashier.
Without a word, the store owner stood, fished out the requested pack from beneath the counter, and placed it on the counter.
"Seven-fifty," he said, eyes never leaving Paul Mark's face.
Paul threw down a ten-dollar bill. "Keep the change."
He grabbed his items and left, slipping into the driver's seat of his car without looking back.
Inside, the cashier remained still for a moment. Then slowly, almost absently, he reached beneath the counter again—not for cigarettes this time, but for something hidden deeper.
He tapped a button. A faint clicking noise echoed beneath the floorboards.
The old man had been running that store for over two decades. He didn't need facial recognition software to know when someone was a dead man walking.
From the moment Paul Mark stepped through the door, the store owner instantly recognized the signs—cold eyes, measured stride, and that subtle edge of tension that clung to men who lived outside the law. This wasn't just some punk; this was a professional. Likely a gang member, maybe higher up the food chain. Not someone to provoke.
The owner kept his face neutral, not giving anything away. His hand, hidden below the counter, stayed tightly gripped on the stock of a Mossberg 590 shotgun. If anything seemed off—one wrong move—he wouldn't hesitate to unload a round.
But nothing happened.
To his surprise, the stranger was calm, even polite, and paid in cash without causing trouble. A rare type, especially among the city's recent flood of desperate criminals. This one wasn't a low-tier thug scrounging for change or looking to intimidate. He had a purpose.
"Kids these days just don't cut it," the boss muttered as he reclined back into his chair. "Takes an old fossil like me to hold the fort."
He'd hired a younger clerk last month to help him cover shifts and maybe retire early, but the kid had quit just two days ago. Said he'd had a run-in with a local gang—left pale as a ghost and refused to come back.
Shaking his head, the old man switched out his magazine for something more risqué, flicking past glossy pages as if to distract himself from the city's creeping rot.
Meanwhile, Paul Mark drove steadily down the deserted road. The basement where Rick Frey had holed up wasn't far now. With each block, his agitation grew. Rick had gone radio silent, and that wasn't just unusual—it was dangerous.
The car came to a quiet stop at the curb. Paul opened the door and stepped out, scanning the row of crumbling buildings that lined the street. Paint peeled from siding, windows were boarded up, and a thick silence hung over everything.
This place was forgotten. No one came here unless they had something to hide. And the only two people who'd know about this spot were him and Rick Frey.
After a moment of mental mapping, Paul found the entrance to the basement hidden beneath the shadows of a warped stairwell.
The stairwell lights were out—no surprise there. A chill breeze drifted up from below, carrying a foul stench that made Paul grimace and pinch his nose.
"What the hell's he been doing down here? Collecting trash for a living?"
He descended carefully, kicking away a few startled rats that scurried over his shoes.
"Jesus! What the hell—where'd all these rats come from?"
With disgust, Paul shoved open the weathered basement door. It creaked loudly, and the hinges resisted him with a groan. As the door swung open, a swarm of disturbed flies buzzed outward, followed by an overwhelming stench of decay that hit like a punch to the face.
Paul gagged. His stomach lurched violently, and for a moment, he thought he might vomit.
Eyes watering, he turned his head to breathe through his sleeve before daring to look inside.
The first thing he saw was a body. Or what was left of one.
It was headless, sprawled out unnaturally across the floor like a discarded doll. Rats gnawed at exposed flesh while fat flies buzzed over open wounds. Maggots writhed through blackened tissue, feasting on what remained. The stench was beyond words—an acidic, rotting miasma that clung to the walls.
Next to the corpse, dried blood had pooled into thick, crusted layers on the floor. It had turned a deep black-red, releasing that unmistakable metallic tang of blood long since spilled.
The room spun.
Paul staggered, hand on the wall, fighting to keep his balance. He'd seen death before—but this? This was something else. Something savage.
He turned, about to run, desperate for air, when his breath caught.
A black silhouette now blocked the stairwell—silent, towering, and utterly still.
It hadn't made a sound.
Paul's mouth opened, but no words came. The figure's white emblem shimmered faintly in the dark, spider-like but twisted. Its eyes—massive, angular, inhuman—reflected only death.
Venom.
And he was smiling.