"Why leave so quickly when you've only just arrived? We haven't even had a proper conversation yet," came a guttural, distorted voice that echoed eerily through the narrow stairwell. The tone wasn't just chilling—it carried something darker, something not entirely human.
Paul Mark froze. The adrenaline rush that had earlier fueled his retching now snapped into full alertness. Instincts forged from years of working in the criminal underworld screamed at him: run. But it was already too late.
The source of the voice stepped from the shadows—tall, muscular, cloaked in black. A living silhouette with pale, narrow eyes that glowed faintly under the dim light. Venom's presence radiated something unnatural, and behind it, the faint outline of a face—half-consumed, half-revealed—emerged. Ethan.
Paul staggered back a step. "Who the hell are you? What are you doing here? Was it you who killed him?!"
His voice trembled slightly, trying to muster defiance, but the weight in the air made every word feel forced. He stared at the masked figure, whose inky black skin shimmered with movement—alive, predatory.
"As expected from a boss-type. Quick brain, faster conclusions," Ethan said flatly as he stepped forward, his voice gritty and laced with venom—literally.
Even as the stench of decay filled the basement, Ethan remained unfazed. The symbiote dulled his sense of smell, insulating him from the visceral horror that clung to every inch of the room.
"And since you figured that out so fast, have you guessed what comes next?" His voice dropped a note, ominous and cold.
Paul instinctively moved back, but Ethan was already there. In a blur of motion, he lunged forward, clamping his hand around Paul's throat and lifting him into the air like he weighed nothing.
"Heh—Hehh!" Paul wheezed, flailing helplessly, his boots scraping against the ground. He clawed at the fingers around his neck, but Ethan's grip only tightened. Paul's face turned a blotchy shade of red, veins bulging, oxygen draining fast.
His vision tunneled. The basement blurred into black.
And then—release.
He collapsed onto the ground, gasping for air like a drowning man pulled from the deep. Every breath burned, but he was alive. Barely.
"Oops," Ethan said with mock apology. "Almost lost control. I do need to ask you some questions, after all. Can't have you dying just yet."
Paul's eyes, now wide with terror, locked onto Ethan's. Or rather, the expressionless void where Ethan's face should be. The only visible features were the mask's ghastly white eyes, like fangs drawn across a monster's face.
"W–why?" Paul croaked out, voice raw. "I've never crossed you. Why are you doing this?"
"Is this some gang hit? Did the Albanians put you up to this? Or the Jalisco boys?" He coughed violently before adding, "If it's about the Bloodhead Gang—you're making a mistake. We're not just some street crew. That money you're chasing… it's tied to real power. People you don't mess with."
Ethan stared at him for a moment. This guy still didn't get it. Still thought this was a turf war. Still thought Ethan was a weapon someone else had sent.
That delusion would be the last comfort Paul Mark had.
"You think this is about your little crew?" Ethan stepped closer, the mask beginning to ripple. "You think someone sent me?"
A soft, wet tearing sound followed.
The mask split down the middle, and from within, Ethan's human face emerged—smooth, youthful, and entirely familiar.
The blood drained from Paul Mark's face.
"You…" he whispered, stunned. "You're… the delivery boy."
Ethan—once the quiet college student, the nobody they'd marked for death—now stood in front of him like a ghost back from the grave. The same man Paul's crew had tried to erase days ago now stood here, transformed and terrifying.
"Impossible… we sent people after you. They were armed. Professionals." His eyes twitched with dawning realization. "If you're here… then…"
"Yeah," Ethan interrupted, voice flat. "They're gone."
A beat passed.
Paul clenched his fists, trying to process it. "So what is this? Revenge? You think you're gonna wipe out the Bloodhead Gang by yourself?!"
"Oh, I don't think." Ethan's voice dropped low. "I know."
The symbiote curled along his arms like living tar, tightening like armor.
"You picked the wrong ant to crush, Paul. You didn't just make me bleed—you woke up something you'll never control."
Paul could barely speak. "So… this is personal…"
"No," Ethan said, his face returning behind the mask. "This is justice."
Then he stepped forward.
"Now, let's try again. Who gave the order?".
Ethan let the symbiote creep over his face once again, the living substance clinging tightly as Venom's monstrous visage emerged—jagged teeth, hollow eyes, and a voice that echoed like something torn from a nightmare.
"If you don't tell me who's pulling the strings," Ethan growled, his voice warped and inhuman, "then I'll assume you're the one giving the orders."
He took a step forward, shadow engulfing him.
"And let me spoil something for you in advance. The treatment for pawns and masterminds? It's not the same."
He leaned in, his face inches from Paul Mark's. "One of them gets to die quickly… the other gets torn apart. Inch by inch."
"The Bloodhead Gang won't let you get away with this!" Paul Mark shouted. His voice cracked, but he didn't answer Ethan's question. He just glared up at him, forcing strength into his words.
"What!"
Paul's defiance was cut short by a shriek of agony as Ethan decided to let Venom speak through action.
Several sharp black tendrils erupted from Ethan's back—four of them pinning Paul's limbs to the damp, mildew-stained basement wall. Blood spurted where the tips drove through flesh.
One additional tentacle elongated into a narrow, blade-like shape and began tracing shallow cuts across Paul's chest and arms, leaving behind bloody gashes. Each stroke was slow, intentional, almost surgical.
"You can keep playing the tough guy," Ethan said, his voice disturbingly calm. "It won't change the outcome. And trust me—we've got plenty of time."
Paul Mark's screams echoed through the basement like the shriek of metal scraping bone. The tendrils embedded in his limbs began rotating slightly, adding an unbearable twist to the pain.
Every ten minutes, Ethan gave him a chance to speak.
Every time Paul refused, the torment intensified.
By the third round, the gang enforcer broke. His body convulsed, the pain and itching driving him over the edge. Through clenched teeth and shivering breath, he cried out:
"Stop! I… I'll talk! Just end it quick!"
Ethan didn't speak. He simply stood there, motionless, allowing the tentacles to retract—though they still lingered nearby like the coils of a waiting serpent.
Paul gasped for air, the blood on his shirt soaking through. He spoke between desperate gulps.
"It's… it's not that complicated…"
He coughed and groaned before continuing. "We were at that house that night to clean up a problem. A traitor in the Bloodhead Gang… he sold info to a rival crew, screwed up a major deal. Lost us product. Money."
"Our boss, Jon Harmon, lost it. He put his brother—Harvey Harmon—in charge of 'sending a message.' He wanted the whole gang to see what happens when someone betrays Bloodhead."
Ethan's eyes narrowed behind the living mask. Jon Harmon. A name that had come up before. He was one of the larger street-level players in Brooklyn, running drugs and weapons out of Bushwick under the protection of dirty cops and front businesses. Not someone you'd underestimate—but clearly someone who underestimated him.
Paul continued. "Harvey led the crew. We were just the clean-up team. Everything went smoothly… until you knocked on the damn door."
Ethan stayed quiet, the memory flashing through his mind. The delay before the door opened, the awkward behavior. He remembered the way the guy didn't meet his eyes—too nervous.
"So you were the one who answered," Ethan said coldly.
"Yeah… Harvey didn't want to take chances. He told me to pretend to be the target, take the delivery, and send you off fast. You weren't supposed to see anything."
"But…" Ethan growled.
"But the guy dragging the body dropped him. He rolled down the stairs. Thud. Loud. Boss Harvey realized after you left that if you had turned your head—just once—you might've seen the blood, maybe even the body."
Ethan's fists clenched.
"So he decided to kill me. Over a guess."
Paul nodded weakly. "That's when Harvey told me… to deal with you. Quietly. No loose ends."
Silence.
A heartbeat later, Ethan's fist slammed into the basement wall next to Paul's head. The force reduced part of the concrete to rubble, dust filling the air.
"You tried to kill me," he said, voice shaking with restrained fury, "because of your screw-up. You tortured and killed a man over gang politics. And then you came after me for doing my job."
Paul had no answer. His mouth hung open, trembling, his skin soaked in sweat and blood.
Ethan stood over him like a demon cast in shadow, black veins rippling across his body as Venom pulsed with restrained rage.
The pain wasn't over.
But the truth was beginning to unravel.