Paul Mark's eyes bulged in pure terror the moment he understood what was about to happen. He shook his head furiously, blood dripping from his shattered nose, and began cursing Ethan—no, screaming in a garbled frenzy, each plea a mix of hysteria and agony.
But Ethan, cold and exacting, didn't flinch. The symbiote's black tendrils steadied Paul Mark's head. Then with surgical precision, one tendril slithered into his mouth. Ethan forced it open, gripping the base of the tongue—and with a sickening, wet snap—ripped it out. Blood sprayed upward, coating Paul Mark's chin and neck in crimson.
And yet Ethan wasn't done.
He made sure the length of the tongue wasn't fully severed—just long enough to avoid immediate death from blood loss. He even tilted Paul's head slightly so he wouldn't choke. Every motion was calculated, deliberate. Ruthless efficiency borrowed from Venom's biological memory and his own sharpened hatred.
"You talk too much. Consider this… sick leave," Ethan muttered, his voice hoarse with suppressed rage. "Now with that iron taste in your mouth, the rats should come crawling sooner."
He paused thoughtfully, then added, "Oh, almost forgot—your stomach. Let's give them another reason to love you."
A tentacle sliced into Paul Mark's lower abdomen with surgeon-like steadiness, a shallow incision just deep enough to leak—but not fatal. The scent of blood and opened flesh wafted into the cold air, triggering low skitters in the shadows. Already, the braver rats began creeping forward, beady eyes shining with animal hunger.
Unable to scream, Paul Mark writhed in place. His limbs were ruined—disjointed, useless. He tried slamming the back of his head into the ground, desperate to knock himself unconscious, maybe die quickly. But Ethan noticed.
With clinical disinterest, he snapped a rusted steel bar in half, molded it into a U-shape, and anchored it around Paul Mark's head like a brace—crushing it into place with enough force to immobilize but not kill. There would be no escaping the pain.
"No mercy for the filth who ruins lives and thinks justice won't come knocking." Ethan crouched beside him, his voice now cold and venom-laced. "You're not dying yet. You're going to feel it first. Every bite. Every maggot crawling through your veins. You'll understand what suffering tastes like."
Paul Mark's eyes rolled, pupils dilated, but his consciousness clung stubbornly to life.
"In a few days, your Harmon brothers will join you. Maybe you'll get to hear them screaming from hell. Maybe they'll recognize your rotting stench when they get there."
Satisfied, Ethan finally stood up and admired his handiwork. Paul Mark was nothing more than a pulsating mass of exposed nerves and dying tissue—alive, but only just.
To prevent any "accidents," Ethan reinforced the basement. He ripped a large steel sheet from the skeletal frame of the adjacent warehouse and wedged it tightly into the stairwell, completely sealing off all escape routes. Only a few small ventilation holes were left for air—and for the scent of rot to rise.
"Enjoy your stay," Ethan whispered as he exited, pausing beneath a decaying tree outside the warehouse. "This is your final act… a death rite tailored just for you."
But Ethan knew deep down this was just the start. Paul Mark's execution was not vengeance fulfilled—it was an overture to the coming bloodbath.
Back home, Ethan sat at his desk, still in his torn hoodie, drying blood under his nails. His eyes rested on a photo—him and Old York at a bar, grinning like idiots. A memory burned into the back of his mind.
York was gone. Not missing. Not in hiding. Dead. No cosmic power, not even Venom's regenerative biology, could bring him back. All Ethan could offer now was pain—raw, cruel justice delivered to every last bastard responsible.
"One by one, I'll break them," Ethan murmured, his voice cracking. "Until there's nothing left to bury."
He exhaled slowly—shoulders sagging, tension unspooling in his chest. His heart thudded slower now, the adrenaline fading.
It wasn't until that moment that Ethan noticed something strange.
Venom… had been silent.
No comments. No hunger for brains. No snide remarks or gleeful laughter. The symbiote, which once rattled his mind like a second conscience, was unnervingly quiet.
Was it fear?
Satisfaction?
Or had Ethan done something so monstrous that even Venom, the Klyntar parasite forged in millennia of violence, recoiled?
The silence lingered like a weight in the room.
And for the first time in hours, Ethan wasn't sure if he was still fully human.
Perhaps sensing Ethan's thoughts, the living mass of black tendrils began to stir across his shoulders. Within seconds, Venom coalesced into form—its glossy surface rippling like dark tar under moonlight.
"I understand now… why I was drawn to you that day," Venom's voice rumbled, low and contemplative. "You're not normal. Not even close."
Back when they first bonded, Ethan's immense psychic pressure had overwhelmed the symbiote, muting its more chaotic instincts. But now, after witnessing what Ethan had done to Paul Mark, Venom finally recognized the truth: this host didn't suppress its darkness—he embraced it.
Ethan's expression tightened. He wasn't proud. But he wasn't regretful either.
"I didn't plan to become this way," he murmured. "But if I had to do it again… I'd still make the same choices."
So what if that made him a villain in someone else's eyes? He didn't care about wearing the label of "hero." He had no illusions about saving the world or upholding some fictional moral compass. If being a monster meant protecting those he loved and punishing those who tore his world apart, then so be it. Let the world call him the devil.
What mattered was justice—his justice. Ruthless to those who deserved it. Gentle, even tender, to those who didn't.
That was the moral code Old York had tried to instill in him. The gruff old man had always believed in the right to fight back, not with rules or red tape, but with force. Whether it was during Ethan's miserable high school years or the toxic system in college, York had always given one piece of advice: If they hurt you first, don't hold back. Break them.
"Here," Venom said, pulling a bar of hazelnut chocolate from the drawer and offering it. "It'll stabilize your nervous system. Cocoa alkaloids work on your brain chemistry. Soothes agitation."
Ethan didn't hesitate. He broke off a piece, popped it into his mouth, and let the flavor melt on his tongue. The sweet bitterness flooded his senses, anchoring him. A momentary calm.
Venom took a piece for itself, chewing audibly before continuing. "You're probably wondering why I went quiet earlier."
Ethan opened one eye, licking chocolate from his fingers. "Yeah. That's not like you."
The symbiote nodded its massive head. "At first, I was… impressed. The way you handled that man—it showed efficiency, brutality, and precision. But then I noticed something else. Something in your physiology."
Ethan raised a brow. "What kind of something?"
Venom's body rippled with discomfort. "Your spiritual energy. During your encounter with Paul Mark, it surged far beyond baseline. Especially when you were laughing."
Ethan blinked, the memory flashing back—how he'd grinned manically as Paul begged for death.
"It was like watching a calm ocean suddenly turn into a boiling storm," Venom said. "Violent, unstable, explosive."
"You're saying I nearly lost control?"
"No," Venom growled, "I'm saying you nearly blew your brain out from the inside. Your spirit became hyper-accelerated, far beyond what even enhanced humans—mutants, Inhumans, or symbiote hosts—can typically handle."
Ethan ran a hand through his hair, frowning. "So I'm carrying a spiritual time bomb in my skull?"
Venom didn't laugh. "No. You're worse than a time bomb. At least a bomb explodes once."
Ethan groaned, dragging a palm across his face. "Great. So I'm some kind of ticking supernatural nuclear reactor with a vengeance complex."
"Precisely. And the only reason I didn't speak earlier was to avoid triggering further neural activity. My presence might have tipped your spirit into a full psychic rupture."
"Thanks for the concern," Ethan said dryly.
Venom's face split into a wicked grin. "Don't thank me yet. I like this host body intact. Besides, if you go brain-dead, I'll have to start looking for a replacement—and that's such a hassle."
Ethan scowled.
Venom chuckled darkly and handed over another square of chocolate.