"Get rid of him."
Just four simple, casual words.
Old York paid for those words with his life.
Had it not been for the existence of Venom, Ethan would have died that night in what the world would've called a tragic hit-and-run—just another closed case with no leads. He would have joined the long, bloody list of the Bloodhead Gang's anonymous victims, another red mark buried under decades of New York's criminal filth.
The wall behind Ethan exploded into rubble with a violent strike, sending fragments flying in all directions. Paul Mark didn't even have time to cry out before a chunk of shattered concrete knocked him to the floor. As he struggled to push the rubble off his legs, thick black tentacles coiled around his body like pythons.
Ethan dragged him out with one effortless pull.
"Start talking," Ethan snarled. "Everything you know about the Bloodhead Gang. And especially about the Harmon brothers. We want everything."
His voice was deep, distorted by the alien resonance of the symbiote. Venom's mouth hung half-open behind the words, fangs dripping saliva as though it relished the tension, the fear, the smell of blood.
Ethan wasn't just angry. He was cold and focused.
This was no longer just vengeance for an attempted murder—it was justice for Old York. The man who'd offered Ethan kindness when he had nothing. A man erased from the world over a petty order from a gang leader.
Paul Mark, sprawled over broken concrete and blood, took a deep breath. Death was close enough that he could taste it. As a gang enforcer, he'd always known he'd probably die like this. Still, he hadn't expected it to come so soon—or from someone like Ethan.
He stared up at the young man whose face was now a living mask of nightmare. This wasn't just some vengeful college student. No… this thing was something else. Something far more dangerous than anyone the Bloodhead Gang had ever dealt with.
And that's what made him afraid.
Ethan could probably take down one or two people. Maybe even ten. But when the Bloodhead Gang responded, it wouldn't be one or two. It would be fifty. Armed to the teeth. And they wouldn't hesitate.
Could anyone stand against that?
In Paul Mark's experience—no one could survive dozens of trained men aiming guns at their skull. Not even the street freaks like Daredevil or Punisher. No one was invincible.
What Paul didn't know was that Ethan wasn't "anyone."
Ethan didn't care what was in the dying man's head. If he knew Paul was fantasizing about his inevitable death under a rain of bullets, he would've laughed—and then silenced him anyway.
Guns?
Maybe they were dangerous to normal people. To Spider-Man? Sure, if you caught him off guard.
But to Venom?
They were a joke.
Small-caliber bullets bounced off the symbiote like BBs. High-caliber rounds left bruises at worst. Even Ethan's original weaknesses—flames and sonic attacks—had dulled since bonding with the symbiote. The fusion was evolving. The more they fought together, the more adaptable Venom became.
Unless someone brought a military-grade flamethrower or StarkTech sonic disruptor, Ethan would be just fine.
In the suffocating dark of the basement, Paul Mark gave in.
Pinned to a pile of jagged stones, he began talking—quietly at first, then with growing clarity as he realized he had no other path but death.
He told Ethan everything.
The Bloodhead Gang was one of the five largest syndicates operating in New York's criminal underworld. While the Maggia families and Kingpin's empire loomed large in public perception, the Bloodhead Gang was different—less flashy, but just as deadly. Where Kingpin focused on control and intimidation, Bloodhead built an empire on narcotics, street-level corruption, and ruthless efficiency.
They held a near-monopoly over New York's underground drug pipeline. From Brooklyn to Queens, nearly 60% of the city's illicit substance trade ran through their channels.
Other gangs envied their dominance. The Hell's Kitchen Triads, the Midtown Cartel, even Hammerhead's splinter group in Lower Manhattan—they all tried to muscle in.
None succeeded.
Whether it was through brute strength, clever political shielding, or just raw savagery, the Bloodhead Gang always emerged stronger.
And at the center of it all were the Harmon brothers.
Jon Harmon—the elder brother—was a ghost in the public eye. The gang's strategic mind. No social media, no photos, no police records with fingerprints. Even Paul Mark, who served under the gang for five years, had never seen him in person. To most, Jon was more myth than man.
But the results of his leadership were very real.
Paul had more familiarity with Harvey Harmon, Jon's younger brother. Unlike Jon, Harvey was visible, brutal, and completely unhinged. He was the muscle. The face the gang sent when they wanted someone beaten, broken, or buried.
"Harvey…" Paul said, spitting blood from the side of his mouth. "He's the one you ran into. He's the one who gave the order."
Ethan's body tensed at the confirmation.
He already knew Harvey was involved, but hearing the name from Paul's lips solidified it.
"He didn't even care who saw what," Paul wheezed. "Just told us to take you out. No witnesses. You were just a kid delivering food…"
He trailed off.
The basement fell into silence. The air felt thick with heat and violence.
Ethan didn't speak for a moment.
Then Venom whispered inside him:
"We know their names now. So let's go knock on their doors."
Ethan clenched his fists. The muscles under the symbiote armor rippled.
The Bloodhead Gang thought they could bury him with the past.
But now, he was going to bury them—one by one.
If Jon Harmon is the brain and soul behind the Bloodhead Gang, then Harvey Harmon is its executioner—a blunt instrument of terror forged from muscle, brutality, and blood. He lacks Jon's meticulous intelligence, but his savage methods and total loyalty make him just as dangerous. Harvey isn't just the gang's sharp blade; he's the one who wields it without hesitation.
In the criminal underworld of New York—where organizations like the Maggia, Kingpin's empire, and even offshoots of HYDRA cast their long shadows—Harvey Harmon is known as the kind of man who does things so violent they feel almost mythic. Whispers in Hell's Kitchen call him "the Living Devil." That nickname was no exaggeration.
Now, with all the blood and ruin laid bare before him, Ethan finally saw the full picture.
Everything was exposed.
The truth behind Old York's death.
The deception surrounding the delivery trap.
The real face of the Bloodhead Gang—rotting behind expensive suits, drug empires, and cold violence.
And with that truth came a strange, agonizing cocktail of emotion. The death of Old York wasn't just another tragic headline. It was the trigger, the moment Ethan was reborn in pain. It began with a senseless murder, and it left an unhealable scar across Ethan's soul. The world had moved on as if nothing had happened.
The cause? Nothing more than a gang's knee-jerk reaction. One man's life erased with the same casual cruelty used to swat away a fly. As simple and ordinary to them as a meal. A routine cleanup.
Paul Mark, barely able to keep his eyes open now, lay slumped on the pile of rubble, his voice flat and lifeless.
"I've told you everything I know," he muttered. "Just give me a good death."
He had accepted it. There would be no escape. He remembered what Ethan said earlier—that those who stayed silent would suffer a fate worse than death. But even for those who confessed… death was far from guaranteed.
He simply wanted it to be over quickly.
Ethan looked down at the broken man.
But what Paul Mark saw next was not the mercy he'd hoped for.
Instead, Ethan began to laugh.
A slow, hollow sound that built into a manic crescendo—raw and unhinged. His laughter echoed in the basement like a shrieking banshee. He fell to his knees, covering his face, but the sound came out anyway. It was wild. Fractured. Chaotic.
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!"
The very walls seemed to tremble from the resonance of it. Loose gravel rolled with invisible vibrations. Rats and insects scurried for cover, as if sensing something unnatural being born in that moment.
Paul Mark's calm disintegrated instantly. The madness in that laugh gnawed at his nerves, and fear crept into every inch of his broken body. This wasn't normal. This wasn't just vengeance anymore.
This was something else.
When the laughter finally stopped, Ethan slowly lowered his hands. His eyes—usually dark with silent anger—now glowed red, faintly illuminated by the pulsing life of the symbiote that had nearly consumed him. The human part of him was there… but something deeper was in control now.
"I've changed my mind," Ethan said coldly. "You told me everything I wanted to hear. And yet…"
"…I still don't want you to die easily."
His voice, now layered with the alien timbre of Venom, scraped against the walls of the basement like rusted metal.
Paul Mark's heart dropped into his stomach.
"Kill me, you monster!" he screamed, no longer calm. "You said—you said you'd give me a good death!"
"I gave you a chance," Ethan replied as he walked forward slowly, the tendrils twitching behind him like the tails of hungry serpents.
"But you're a gang enforcer. Trash who thought he had the right to negotiate for peace. A man who's helped bury dozens in shallow graves. And now you want my mercy?"
"No," Ethan growled, venomous tendrils flicking out and slicing through the air.
"You don't get to die well."
With clinical precision, the tentacles drove into Paul Mark's shoulders and hips—not to kill, but to destroy. Bones cracked. Tendons tore. With a savage twist, they dislocated his joints, rendering his limbs limp and useless.
Paul screamed so loudly the basement echoed with the rawness of it.
"You feel that?" Ethan said, tilting his head.
"That's just the beginning."
"I'm going to slice through every nerve in your body until you're nothing but a sack of meat. You won't die. You won't even move. But you'll feel everything."
"And then…"
He paused, his tone twisted with bitter amusement.
"You remember those rats you saw when you came in? And the flies?"
From a dark corner of the basement, a twitching sound echoed—the unmistakable scratching of rodents returning.
"They're not here by accident," Ethan whispered. "They live here. Feed here."
He leaned in closer, red eyes blazing like twin coals.
"They'll lay their eggs under your skin. The larvae will burrow through your flesh. Maggots in your muscles. Worms in your marrow."
"They'll devour you from the inside."
"And you? You'll be conscious the entire time."
As Ethan stepped back into the shadows, leaving Paul Mark to scream and convulse in horror, the symbiote slithered back across his face like a curtain falling on a stage.
This was no longer a delivery boy seeking revenge.
This was Venom.
And now, the Bloodhead Gang was next.