Although Ethan found Venom's complaints a bit over-the-top, he had to admit that the symbiote wasn't wrong.
From what Venom had explained, his mental state had become dangerously unstable. If his psyche snapped in the wrong moment—perhaps mid-conflict—he might be the first one to drop dead, and Venom would be next, stranded without a functioning host.
"I'm serious, you need to get your head in order," Venom said, clapping a viscous black hand on Ethan's shoulder. "You only dealt with Paul Mark. One guy. And your spiritual field was already boiling like the Hulk in rush hour traffic."
"If you lose it that easily, how the hell are we going to handle the Harmon brothers? You'll implode before you even throw a punch."
"So, here's what I suggest: breathe. Ground yourself. Find your mental center, or whatever Doctor Strange types are always preaching."
"I watched some old footage of Daredevil and Iron Fist," Venom added, a little smug. "They practiced something called qigong and yoga. Apparently, it helps channel chi, stabilizes your spirit, and boosts your survivability."
"Maybe start small," the symbiote continued. "Let's set a simple goal—you know, like don't kill yourself from psychic overload before killing your enemies. Deal?"
Ethan gave a dry chuckle despite himself. Venom's way of explaining things was far from elegant, but the core of the advice had merit. Since Old York's murder—and the revelation that the "accident" had been orchestrated—his mind had become more volatile, reactive, and chaotic.
His thoughts raced at night. He often found himself unable to sleep. Sometimes his pulse spiked for no reason at all. Rage boiled beneath his skin like lava.
Clearly, revenge wasn't the only war he had to fight—his own deteriorating spirit was becoming a battlefield of its own.
"Fine," Ethan muttered. "I'll find a way to slow down the mental spiral. Can't die before the real bastards do."
With that settled, Ethan turned his attention to the next phase of his operation.
From his jacket pocket, he pulled out the few items he'd taken off Paul Mark before leaving him to the rats: a scuffed leather wallet and an older-model smartphone. Minimal loot, but potentially valuable intel.
Paul Mark had talked—begged, really—before the end, and Ethan had extracted key details. One, Harvey Harmon didn't live at a permanent residence. He drifted between luxury apartments, exclusive nightclubs, and a few high-end bars, always on the move. Clearly a man who didn't want to be tracked.
But now, Ethan had a list of his most frequented locations—scattered across Midtown, Hell's Kitchen, and the Upper East Side.
Trying to stalk each spot personally would be inefficient and draw too much attention. If he wanted to catch Harmon slipping up, he needed to think like Stark, not Punisher.
Technology would be his net.
He pulled up the rudimentary surveillance software he'd developed during his cybersecurity internship under York's name—something inspired by S.H.I.E.L.D.'s now-defunct Project Insight. Though crude compared to StarkTech or Wakandan systems, it would do the job.
What he needed now were the tools to expand its reach.
Still under the cover of night, Ethan hit the streets—visiting nearly every electronics supply store across Manhattan. He purchased micro-cameras, wireless transmitters, modified routers, power cells, and thermal masking wraps—making sure to buy in small quantities from different shops to avoid suspicion.
By the time he returned home, he had enough parts to outfit a small recon unit.
He laid the gear out across his kitchen table, then rolled up his sleeves and got to work. The room was silent except for the soft whir of a soldering iron and the tapping of keys as he integrated each device into the network. One by one, the feeds flickered to life across his monitor screens—each tagged with GPS and timestamp overlays.
He configured facial recognition subroutines, feeding the system Harmon's image and any known aliases, then linked alert protocols to his phone via encrypted channels.
Within hours, he had created a decentralized monitoring system capable of quietly tracking every location on his list. It wasn't as sleek as what Stark Industries would build—but it was reliable, covert, and untraceable.
By the time Ethan leaned back in his chair, rubbing his burning eyes, the moon outside had already vanished behind the dark spires of the city skyline. The sky was black, New York's towers outlined in neon and mist.
He stared out the window in silence.
The hunt had begun.
Ethan still didn't rest. With the equipment carefully packed into his backpack, he vaulted out of the window with a fluid motion, using the fire escape and nearby scaffolding to disappear into the concrete arteries of Manhattan. He had memorized the map he created earlier and headed toward each of the predesignated locations—nightclubs, bars, and apartment buildings frequented by Harvey Harmon, the Bloodhead Gang lieutenant he was now hunting.
Moving with precision, Ethan began installing micro-cameras and motion sensors at each entry and exit. The devices were small—some repurposed from Stark Tech scraps he'd scavenged months ago, others ordered off the black market—and all were linked to the surveillance program he wrote himself. Compared to something like J.A.R.V.I.S. or S.H.I.E.L.D.'s surveillance grid, his system was primitive. But for one man and one symbiote, it was more than enough.
By the time he returned to his apartment, the horizon was bathed in the golden hues of dawn. Sunlight crept past the curtains and painted long shadows across the floor.
Everything was finally set.
Only after confirming that every feed was active and that all equipment was transmitting clean signals did Ethan allow himself to exhale. He closed the blinds tightly, sealing out the morning light, then turned to Venom.
"If anything shows up on the feeds—anything at all—wake me immediately," he ordered.
Venom, partially wrapped around his right arm like a coiled ribbon of black muscle, slithered up to his shoulder. "Don't worry, Ethan. Your cortex needs full delta-wave sleep. Any interruption in REM cycles could cause another spike in neural instability."
Ethan didn't argue. His mental state had been on edge for days—maybe even longer. Venom's warning wasn't hyperbole. If he didn't rest now, he wouldn't make it to the next fight.
He collapsed onto the mattress. Within minutes, the exhaustion took hold. No dreams. No movement. Just a silent, consuming void.
When he woke again, it was already noon the next day. Sunlight peeked between the curtain's edges. He blinked at the digital clock on the wall—he'd slept through the night and half the next day.
Venom, who had shifted into a semi-humanoid form with thick, black arms and glowing white eyes, was seated in front of the laptop. The monitors displayed rotating surveillance feeds from all the planted cameras. When Ethan stirred, Venom turned and greeted him casually.
"You're awake. About time. That sleep cycle reset should've realigned your neurochemistry."
Ethan rubbed his temples, still a bit groggy. "Felt like I blacked out. Did anything happen?"
Venom shook his head. "Nothing. No movement. The system didn't trigger any alerts. Harvey Harmon must be laying low."
Ethan exhaled and sat up, jaw tight. "He can't hide forever. When he shows himself, we strike."
Venom didn't respond. It knew better than to question Ethan's resolve. This wasn't just vengeance—it was strategy. The Bloodhead Gang had taken everything from him. This wasn't about justice anymore. It was about destruction.
"Harvey's death is guaranteed," Ethan continued. "But his brother… We still don't know who he really is. Harmon's our only lead."
Perhaps it was the influence of the symbiote, enhancing his aggression and sharpening his instincts, or maybe it was the fact that Ethan had no one left to protect. Either way, fear had long since left him. What replaced it was the cold certainty of war.
"Gu~~" His stomach growled loudly, interrupting his train of thought.
Even though his mind had rested, his body had been running on fumes. It was long past time to eat.
"Here," Venom said, tossing him a piece of chocolate. "Refuel. You're useless if you pass out again."
Ethan caught it, chewed thoughtfully, and then stood. "I'll make real food. We both need it."
He headed to the kitchen. Since bonding with Venom, his appetite had grown massively. His metabolism was enhanced, and Venom burned through calories like a furnace.
Ethan opened the fridge and pulled out a tray of ingredients—fresh vegetables, marinated chicken, eggs, rice. He'd stocked up during his prep day. As he laid them out on the counter, Venom coiled beside him like a hungry dog.
"You know," Venom mused, "I used to think humans only ate garbage. Fast food. Processed sugar. Nothing but trash."
Ethan raised a brow. "We still do."
Venom's eyes squinted playfully. "But this… this is an art form. Sautéed meat, seasoned greens, spices… I finally get why humans obsess over food."
The symbiote reached out and grabbed a handful of sliced green onions, sniffing them curiously. "So simple, yet when it all comes together… delicious."
Ethan chuckled. "You sound like a culinary critic."
While chopping vegetables, he set the rice cooker to full. These days, a half-pot of rice wouldn't cut it. Between his own elevated needs and Venom's growing appetite, a full pot was necessary for every meal.
He stirred the pan with practiced ease. For a moment, the tension lifted—just a man and his alien parasite cooking dinner like some twisted domestic scene.
But peace never lasted.
Halfway through preparing the meal, the doorbell rang—sharp and sudden.
Both Ethan and Venom froze.
The rice cooker hissed. The pan sizzled.
No one knew where he lived.
No one was supposed to.
Ethan's eyes darkened as he reached for the knife—just in case.
Someone had found him.
And they might not live long enough to regret it.