"I'm a doctor, not God."
Strange was standing in the operating room's doorway, hands on hips. "And I'm a neurosurgeon. I can't cure everything—you can't just bring me every dying patient and expect miracles!"
"So how's Dr. Connors?"
"I'm not sure. Ask the machines doing the scans. That data is too big for me to read."
Then he noticed Schiller, Stark, and Peter all staring at him, the way people stare at a microwave that won't beep. That was the last straw. He snapped.
"What do you think doctors are? Wishing machines? You dump every hopeless case on me, expect me to fix it overnight, and when I don't, you question my credentials?!"
Schiller said calmly, "Okay, suppose you can't cure him. You could at least refer us to someone who can, right?"
Strange rolled his eyes. "At this point, you'd have better luck praying."
"I want you to save him," Tony said. "I'll pay—whatever it takes."
"Money. Money. Money. You think money fixes everything. Yeah, you're rich, but not everything bends to your wallet. You brought me a half-dead man. What am I supposed to do? Perform CPR with a gold-plated defibrillator?"
"Listen," Tony growled, stepping forward and jabbing a finger at Strange's shoulder, "you'd better—"
Strange shoved him back. "Ha! You think everyone's just one of your billionaire lapdogs?"
He glanced at Schiller as he said it. Schiller hadn't moved—but Stark did. He swung hard and clocked Strange square in the face. Peter lunged between them.
"Hey! Calm down, Mr. Stark! Calm down!"
Strange doubled over, hand on his nose. Blood smeared his fingers. He muttered a curse under his breath. Schiller clamped a hand on his shoulder and dragged him down the hall.
Strange resisted, but Schiller was stronger. Half pulled, half hauled, he stumbled around the corner. Then he snapped, "What the hell? You think I can't take that damn arms dealer?"
"Have you even noticed his state of mind? You really want to brawl with a man who might be losing his grip?"
Strange slumped onto a bench in the corridor, fuming. "I don't get it. Why do you keep dragging me into your messes? You've got money, powers, magic tricks—why are you invading my normal life?"
Schiller opened his mouth. Closed it. He couldn't say it out loud. Not while someone's staring at your arm like it's a dinner steak.
Meanwhile, Peter tried to calm Tony down. Something was off—he'd never seen Stark this volatile. Sure, he was dramatic, sarcastic, and emotionally stunted. But violent? Unpredictable? No.
Peter grabbed his arm, trying to turn him. Tony snarled, yanked free, and shoved Peter so hard he skidded back three feet.
Peter stared. He hadn't even braced. And yet—Tony, without armor, shouldn't be able to push Spider-Man anywhere.
Something was very wrong.
Peter stepped back. Saw Schiller motioning from the corner. Hesitated. Looked at Tony—one wild-eyed, twitching figure against the hospital lights—then ran.
Tony stood frozen, shaking his head violently, muttering at nothing. Or maybe at something only he could hear.
"What's going on?" Peter asked once he reached Schiller. "Is Mr. Stark sick?"
"It proves a universal truth," Schiller said dryly. "Alcohol turns people into sludge."
Outside the hospital, Stark didn't call for his suit. He walked, jaw clenched, whispering through gritted teeth, "Damn it! You can't do that! Peter's just a kid!"
A low, rasping voice answered from the air itself:
"Let me eat his head. It'll be delicious. You'll love the taste…"
Tony hissed, "Listen, you walking pile of tar—if you hijack my body again, I'll have JARVIS hit you with a 500-decibel sonic cannon and grind you into dust!"
To understand how that threat came to be, we need to go back a few days.
After Obadiah fell into a coma, Stark Industries' weapons division ground to a halt. Even Tony, who rarely touched business, realized something: his uncle wasn't just family. He was the spine holding the whole operation upright.
Without him, chaos rushed in.
Obadiah had danced between the military, Congress, and rival arms dealers like a man juggling chainsaws. No one got an inch they didn't earn. Not even the Pentagon.
Now he was gone.
Pepper handled logistics well. But politics? Power plays? She wasn't built for it.
Tony? He didn't know the first rule.
For years, he'd lived in a bubble—lab doors sealed, world shut out. Obadiah dealt with the wolves. Tony just invented.
Now the shield was gone. He was exposed.
His brain was genius-level, but not in the way that mattered here. Politics didn't run on equations. The military pressed harder. Tony had no leverage, no instinct, no playbook.
He didn't understand the alliances, the betrayals, or the quiet wars fought over coffee and classified briefings. His intellect would catch up—eventually. But right now? He was flailing.
The military struck fast. Used the press, twisted narratives, and painted Stark as unstable and irresponsible. Stark Industries found itself surrounded.
The pressure was different this time. Not the frustration of a failed experiment. This was deeper. Duller. Relentless.
No outlet. No solution. So he fell back on old habits: smoke, liquor, and self-destruction.
Inside that storm of rage, grief, and guilt, something stirred.
Venom—the symbiote who broke free first. A prodigy among its kind.
Everyone knows these creatures feed on emotion. Strong ones. Raw ones.
Venom had been bonded to a journalist—a recently divorced man with quiet despair. When that reporter interviewed Tony Stark, Venom felt him. Beneath the arrogance, the brilliance, the swagger—there was a churning ocean of pain. Tempting. Delicious.
It didn't hesitate.
The moment the mic came close, Venom leapt—from host to host—in a split second.
At first, Tony noticed nothing. Venom knew the rules: lie low, blend in, don't scare the meal.
But soon, Tony sensed it. Not just mood swings. Something was pulling at his emotions. Amplifying them. Twisting them.
To stay in control, he drank more. He believed he was protecting others from himself.
JARVIS flagged it quietly—personality metrics shifting, neural patterns distorting. A warning, buried in data: You are being influenced.
That influence didn't last long.
When the Lizard stormed Stark Tower, JARVIS triggered the emergency wake-up protocol. But Tony wasn't woken by the music.
He was woken by the symbiote screaming.
The sonic blast tore through it. Venom writhed inside him, exposed.
That's when Tony saw it—a pulsing, black mass beneath his skin. Alien. Hungry.
And intelligent.
It spoke. He claimed to share his thoughts, his memories, and his soul.
Venom always says that. To every host. Because it works. "We are one," it whispers. "I am you."
Lowers the guard. Builds trust.
And in a way, it's true.
Symbiotes aren't born evil. They're blank slates. They don't erase hosts—they merge. Coexist. Feed off emotion, not flesh.
Across the universe, they've bonded with warriors, scholars, and kings. Gave strength in exchange for feeling.
They need minds that think. Hearts that break. Without that, they starve.
Venom knew this. If he couldn't earn trust, he'd spend eternity homeless and starving.
Tony seemed perfect: brilliant, broken, and overflowing with emotion. A feast.
But Venom quickly realized he'd picked the worst possible host to play games with.
📝 FOOTNOTE
[The New York Medical Licensing Board has quietly added a new clause to Section 12: "Psychiatrists are not required to treat patients exhibiting spontaneous scale regeneration, prehensile tails, or divine rage. Furthermore, if a billionaire punches you in the ER, it does not count as informed consent."