By the time Ethan realized how much time had passed, the sky outside had shifted into a dusky hue. What began as a late afternoon of cooking, conversation, and casual laughter had somehow melted into evening.
He had only just woken up around noon, groggy after another night spent combing through leads on the Harmon brothers and lingering guilt over York's death. Then came the cooking, shared meal, Felicia's surprise visit, and the clean-up that turned unexpectedly warm. Somewhere between all that, the hours had slipped away.
"Wow… I didn't even notice it was this late already," Felicia said, her eyes catching the deepening shade of the sky through the window. She hadn't meant to overstay, but the comfort of Ethan's presence made it too easy to forget the time.
She rose from the couch, smoothing out the hem of her sleek black dress. "I should probably head back. If I'm not home soon, my mom's going to think I got caught in another museum robbery—or worse, pulled another one."
Ethan chuckled and stood up as well. "I'll drive you," he said simply, reaching for his keys. "It's already getting dark, and Brooklyn after sundown's not exactly the safest place. Especially not for someone walking home alone."
Felicia didn't argue. She hadn't driven today—this visit was spontaneous, and she hadn't wanted to explain it to her mother ahead of time. So the two of them left together, making their way to Ethan's garage.
The black Dodge Charger roared gently to life under Ethan's practiced hands. He adjusted the rearview mirror while Felicia slipped into the passenger seat, clearly at ease.
As the car glided down the quiet streets, Felicia cast a sideways glance at him, her lips quirking. "You know, you drive like you're holding something back. Most people would be pushing this engine to its limits."
Ethan glanced at her from the corner of his eye, amused. "What, my driving not up to your thrill-seeking standards?"
Felicia raised an eyebrow, brushing a lock of silver-blonde hair over her shoulder. "Not saying that," she teased. "Just… you're definitely used to going faster than this. You've got the grip, the corner control—you're just toning it down for me, aren't you?"
He laughed. "Busted. Didn't expect the legendary Felicia Hardy to be so into street performance specs."
She tilted her chin up proudly. "I contain multitudes. Didn't expect Leon—the quiet, tea-drinking intellectual—to be a closet speed demon either."
"Touché."
They shared a laugh, the kind that echoed deeper than just humor. It was ease. Familiarity. Two people who had started to peel back each other's layers.
Before long, they pulled up in front of a high-rise brownstone in the Upper East Side. It was clear even from the exterior that this wasn't some random apartment complex. This was one of those buildings—old money, steel-reinforced doors, and security cameras that weren't just for show.
As Felicia stepped out, she waved cheerfully back at him. But as she turned toward the building's entrance, she suddenly jumped slightly in surprise—a tall, middle-aged woman with immaculate blonde hair and sharp, calculating eyes had stepped into her path.
Ethan watched from the driver's seat as Felicia composed herself and gave the woman—her mother—a sheepish smile.
That's Anastasia Hardy, Ethan thought. CEO of Hardy International. Philanthropist. Member of more than one city council board and a well-known backer of the Hardy Foundation. Probably knows more about political power than half the mayor's office.
It didn't surprise him that Felicia had turned out so poised, smart, and adaptable. She came from money, yes, but it wasn't just privilege—she'd been raised in a world of expectations and performance. Beneath the rogue charm was someone trained to carry herself like a queen, whether in a gala hall or a back alley.
Old York's voice echoed in Ethan's mind again, as clearly as if the old man were still sitting beside him with a bottle of cheap beer and a plate of greasy pizza.
"You keep telling yourself she's just a friend, but let me tell you something—when a woman like that is willing to make time for a scruffy night owl like you, you don't just sit there slurping noodles and act like nothing's happening."
Ethan could still remember the look York gave him back then—eyebrow raised, that half-smirk playing on his lips.
"She's smart, she's classy, and she's clearly into you. If you don't make a move soon, kid, someone else will."
At the time, Ethan had waved him off with a nonchalant burp and reached for another slice of pizza.
"Old man, you've been watching too many soap operas. We're just friends. Don't turn everything into some Lifetime drama."
Even now, he still wasn't sure how he felt about York's "life advice." The old guy had a habit of making things sound so black-and-white. Ethan preferred the grey areas—the unknown, the unspoken. Maybe that's why Felicia intrigued him so much. She wasn't predictable. She wasn't easy.
Still, as he watched her disappear into the building with her mother, Ethan found himself wondering if maybe York had been right.
"Hey, you little punk, what nonsense are you spewing? I'm trying to teach you how to fall in love properly!" Old York barked with that familiar rasp, the crumpled can of soda in his hand halfway crushed from the sudden rise in volume.
Ethan, who'd just shoved the last slice of pizza into his mouth, looked up lazily. "You call that 'proper'? Sounds more like you're projecting, old man."
York glared at him from across the room, his grey mustache twitching. "Listen, kid, just because you have no goals in that peanut-sized romantic brain doesn't mean others don't. You think everyone just floats around waiting for fate to drop the perfect girl into their lap?"
Ethan leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "So what? You want me to schedule a press conference every time I meet a pretty girl? Life doesn't work that way."
York smacked the table with his palm. "I'm saying Felicia's not some average girl. She's smart, she's skilled, she's got presence. You don't just meet women like her every day—not unless you hang around the Hellfire Club, and even then, half of them will shoot you first."
York pointed a finger accusingly. "I'm not telling you to fall head-over-heels, but don't sleepwalk through it, either. One day, you'll wake up and realize she's gone. And you'll be standing there, wondering what the hell happened."
"Alright, alright," Ethan said, raising both hands. "You win, Grandpa Cupid. But maybe worry about your own love life before giving me a playbook, yeah?"
That one struck a nerve. York stood up so fast his chair screeched against the hardwood. "Why, you little—!"
If Ethan hadn't bolted for the hallway, he was pretty sure York's cane would've left a knot on his head the size of a baseball.
The memory made Ethan laugh to himself, a real, full-bellied chuckle that echoed in the silence of the car. But even as the laughter died out, a bitter undertone crept into the corners of his mouth. The absence hit him hard.
"Damn it, York…"
He exhaled and looked up at the star-scattered night sky above Brooklyn. The city lights didn't quite drown them out tonight. For a while, he said nothing, just staring into the wide, indifferent darkness.
Then he shook it off, started the car, and pulled onto the road. Time to get back.
But as he rolled toward the second intersection, something under the red light made his instincts spark. Across the street sat a matte-black Mercedes-AMG G63, its idling rumble almost drowned out by traffic.
Ethan squinted, narrowing his eyes as his enhanced vision focused through the windshield and into the opposing driver's seat.
And there he was.
Harvey Harmon.
That smug, sharp-jawed face Ethan had memorized from countless files and footage now sat just thirty feet away. Instantly, his hands gripped the steering wheel tighter, the temperature-sensitive trigger on his custom cuff vibrating softly—an alert built into the micro-weave circuitry of his combat suit.
Inside his mind, Venom stirred.
"Heh… Speak of the devil. It's our old friend, served up fresh and juicy. What luck, huh? Let's go say hi."
Venom's voice curled with a sinister purr, practically salivating at the prospect of a hunt.
Ethan didn't answer out loud. He simply focused. The red light switched to green. His car passed the G-Wagon calmly. But as soon as it did, Ethan cut the wheel in a sharp drift, looping behind the other vehicle like a phantom in the fog.
He tailed Harmon discreetly, staying a few cars back. The Mercedes eventually turned off the main avenue and pulled into the underground garage of a high-end luxury apartment building in Lower Manhattan. The kind with penthouses, private elevators, and biometric locks. Definitely the kind of place someone like Harmon would think was safe.
Ethan parked several blocks away in a dim alley with zero foot traffic. He activated the symbiote.
Within moments, the soft hiss of shifting biomass wrapped his frame, coating him in sleek, matte-black armor—Venom's stealth mode. The texture shimmered like liquid shadow. No white spider emblem this time. Just complete, predatory silence.
He scaled the wall easily, fingertips gripping the concrete with microscopic adherence. When he reached the 16th floor, his instincts told him to pause.
There—a partially open balcony window with thin, unlined curtains. Just what he needed.
Ethan crept forward, crouching like a panther in the dark. Through the glass, he confirmed it: Harmon was alone. No guards. No goons. No sign of his usual brothers or backup.
Cocky bastard. No security. Not even motion sensors near the balcony. It was almost too easy.
"Looks like he didn't learn anything from what we did to his older brother," Venom muttered with cold amusement.
Ethan didn't reply. He just observed Harmon carefully. From the faint lines around his eyes and the pacing motion, he could tell the man wasn't as calm as he pretended. Something was bothering him. Maybe fear. Maybe paranoia.
Good.
Ethan noted the timing—the delay between Harmon exiting the vehicle and the lights flickering on in the 16th-floor unit. Matching that with the floor plan data he'd pulled from public records earlier this week, it confirmed Harmon's residence.
With Harmon isolated and no guards posted outside the door or in the lobby, this was the moment. Ethan only needed a clean approach, then control the target before any alert could be raised.
This wasn't about revenge anymore.
This was surgical.