Harvey Harmon reclined on the velvet chaise lounge, a Cuban cigar smoldering between his fingers and a half-empty glass of Bordeaux perched precariously on the edge of the side table. He was completely unaware that the final moments of his life had already begun counting down.
With a smug grin, he took another sip of the aged wine. "Damn it… what the hell is taking Paul so long?"
Paul Mark, his supposed lieutenant, had been tasked with handling a loose end earlier in the evening—a street-level informant who might've seen too much of the Harmon Syndicate's last operation. Harvey had expected a clean report by now, maybe even a souvenir.
Instead, there was silence.
Harvey tapped the ash from his cigar into the glass tray on the coffee table, irritation creeping into his features. He had briefly considered giving Paul a promotion if the job was done quickly and cleanly. But now? He'd have to rethink everything.
With a grumble, he set the wine down and grabbed his phone from the polished mahogany table, thumbing through his contact list until he found Paul Mark's name.
"Let's see what excuse you've cooked up," he muttered, pressing the call button.
"Beep… beep… beep…"
The phone rang on speaker, but before he could curse at the dial tone, he froze.
The same ringtone echoed—from the balcony.
For a full two seconds, Harvey sat motionless, caught between confusion and dread. His eyes darted from his phone to the darkened sliding glass door leading to the balcony.
No. That can't be right.
The familiar jingle continued, crisp and mocking. With growing unease, Harvey stood, opened the drawer in his coffee table, and pulled out a customized Glock 19. It wasn't just paranoia—he knew the kind of people he crossed.
He moved toward the balcony cautiously, gun raised, phone still pressed to his ear. The ringtone hadn't stopped. Whoever was out there was still holding the line.
As he approached the curtains, he pushed them aside with the barrel of the pistol—and that's when he saw it.
A figure sat calmly in the shadows, partially illuminated by the ghostly blue glow of a burner phone in his hand.
The figure was dressed in black, hood up, face obscured except for the eyes. He was completely still, yet radiated menace like a coiled serpent.
Harvey raised the gun instinctively. "Who the hell are you?!"
But before he could squeeze the trigger, the figure lunged forward with terrifying speed—inhumanly fast.
With one brutal motion, Ethan—cloaked in a partially deployed layer of symbiote armor—grabbed Harvey's wrist and twisted until it snapped audibly. The gun clattered to the floor. At the same time, his other hand clamped around Harvey's throat and lifted him off his feet like he weighed nothing.
"Finally…" Ethan snarled through gritted teeth. "I've been looking for you."
His voice was cold, deeper than usual—partially distorted by Venom's influence, leaking through in low growls. It wasn't just anger. It was vengeance.
Harvey's eyes bulged as he kicked wildly in the air, trying to pry loose Ethan's iron grip. His surviving hand clawed at the fingers crushing his windpipe, desperate for air. His survival instincts screamed at him, but his body was failing fast.
Ethan's eyes narrowed.
He tightened just enough to bring Harmon to the edge of unconsciousness—but not past it. Venom hissed in his mind, barely restrained.
"Let me end him now."
"No," Ethan replied inwardly.
"We don't kill for rage," Ethan muttered. "We kill for justice. And I'm not done yet."
This man wasn't just another target. Harvey Harmon had ties to Oscorp's black-market bioweapons pipeline—ties to Norman Osborn's special operations branch. His involvement in the symbiote experimentation that nearly got Gwen and MJ killed couldn't go unanswered.
He would suffer.
Finally, Ethan released his grip, letting Harmon collapse against the wall like a discarded rag doll. The mobster gasped like a drowning man, veins bulging, eyes wild.
But Ethan didn't move. He simply stood over him like a grim sentinel.
Harvey panted heavily, sucking in precious air, before his desperation turned to aggression. With shaking fingers, he reached behind his waist—where a spring-loaded sheath had hidden a curved dagger.
Without warning, he lunged upward in a last-ditch attempt, screaming, blade aimed for Ethan's ribs.
It was a mistake.
Before the blade even neared flesh, Ethan swatted the weapon aside, then grabbed Harmon's attacking arm and twisted.
Crack—crack—crack.
Three distinct snaps echoed through the room as the bones in Harvey's right arm shattered in multiple places. He screamed, saliva dripping from his mouth as he fell back.
"You never learn," Ethan said flatly, yanking the dagger from Harmon's limp hand. "Your brother screamed the same way before he died."
With one sharp kick, he sent Harmon crashing into the corner of the living room, where the man curled in pain, spitting bile.
Venom partially emerged, his eyes flaring white and monstrous as his head extended from Ethan's shoulder.
"Can we eat him now?"
"Not yet," Ethan muttered aloud, glaring down at his prey.
He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, kneeling next to the gasping mob boss.
"You've got a lot to answer for. Paul Mark told me just enough to make me curious. But you?"
He grabbed a fistful of Harmon's bloodied collar, lifting him slightly.
"You're going to tell me everything."
Harvey Harmon groaned, barely conscious.
Ethan released him, letting his body hit the hardwood with a hollow thud.
"Paul was right," Ethan sneered. "You're nothing but a reckless idiot pretending to be a kingpin."
And now, the reckoning had finally begun.
This kind of contemptuous attitude had always been the thing Harvey Harmon despised the most. The moment Ethan's cold, indifferent gaze fell on him like he was nothing more than filth, Harvey's hatred ignited. He lay on the ground, gritting his teeth against the pain, and turned his bloodied face to glare at Ethan with venom in his eyes.
"I knew something was off tonight. So it was Paul Mark, that miserable traitor. No wonder someone came for me out of the blue." His voice turned hoarse and wild. "I should've killed that dog slower last time. Breaking his ribs in front of the crew clearly didn't leave enough of a scar on his memory."
He coughed violently, spitting blood. "That bastard better be dead by your hand, or I swear to God—if he's still alive, I'll drag his soul out and burn it myself. Fucking traitor. Damn it—TMD! Cough—!"
Ethan didn't even blink. He tilted his head slightly, the dark veins of the symbiote crawling along the back of his neck before retreating beneath his skin like rippling shadows.
"Tsk. So fierce even when you're half-dead," Ethan said with mocking amusement. "Relax. You won't have to deal with Paul ever again."
He had already figured out the kind of man Harvey Harmon was. A textbook narcissist with a messiah complex, unable to process anything that didn't revolve around his own authority. To him, betrayal wasn't a moral failing—it was a personal insult, a denial of his supremacy.
"That loyalty you demanded?" Ethan said coldly, crouching beside him. "Turns out Paul's guts weren't as solid as you thought. I'm guessing by now, the last thing left of him is bone dust and regrets."
He stood again and walked slowly around the room. "I really hope he was still conscious when it started. I like to think he understood—down to the very end—what happens when you side with a devil and forget which one's worse."
Harvey's eyes widened slightly as the implication set in. This man hadn't just killed Paul—he had fed him to something. Something alive.
Only then did he notice the subtle hiss of movement in the dark—a faint gurgle from Ethan's arm, where a thread of black shifted under his skin like a coiled serpent. The symbiote.
"You're not one of us," Harvey finally said, his voice steadying. "You're not part of the Bloodhead Gang. I know every name, every face. So who the hell are you?"
He narrowed his eyes. "Don't tell me the Russians or Fisk sent you. You're not their style."
He scanned Ethan's expressionless face, trying to read something—anything.
"Is that it? Some low-tier punks got nervous and decided to hire a freak to clean up the streets? I didn't think any of those bastards had the balls left to take me out."
Ethan said nothing. He just stared, eyes hollow yet focused, like a predator gauging when to pounce.
But Harvey wasn't finished. His brain was running fast now—desperate to reassert control, even if it was just through words.
"Look, I get it. You're good. Real good," he said, licking the blood from his lips. "But whatever they're paying you, I'll double it. Hell—triple."
He forced a thin smile. "I've got offshore accounts, clean ones. You let me go, tell me who hired you, and I'll make sure you never have to work again."
"You want tech? I've got friends at Alchemax and Oscorp. Need muscle? I've got connections in Madripoor. Hell, you want super-serum prototypes? I can get those too."
He leaned forward slightly, voice low and conspiratorial. "Think about it. You and me? We could run this city. I'm not talking about petty gang turf—I'm talking about real control. Black market biotech, military-grade imports, politicians on our payroll."
Still, Ethan didn't speak.
He'd heard these kinds of offers before. Men like Harmon always thought they were irreplaceable, always thought their wealth, their contacts, their hollow power structures made them indispensable.
Ethan had once believed in systems, too.
But that was before.
Before S.H.I.E.L.D. black-bagged innocents.
Before Oscorp's experiments claimed lives like Gwen Stacy's.
Before he became something more—something other—with Venom.
Now, justice wasn't a process. It was a sentence. And Ethan was the executioner.
Harvey mistook Ethan's silence for interest and pressed on.
"Hell, I'll even throw in a contract. You don't like the Bloodhead Gang? Fine. Take out the Russians. Or the Yakuza. Hell, I'll pay you to clean house. We'll build something better from the ground up. No red tape. No backstabbing. Just power."
He forced a weak laugh, his voice cracking. "You're not stupid. You know how this world works."
Finally, Ethan took a step closer. The shadows at his back thickened, Venom's silhouette briefly flaring like smoke catching the light. The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
"You think I want your money?" Ethan's voice was low, but it cut like a blade. "You think this is about turf or contracts?"
He knelt down and looked Harvey in the eyes.
"This is for Gwen Stacy—she died because of your experiments. And MJ? She barely survived. Your greed nearly turned her into another corpse."
The blood drained from Harvey's face.
"I didn't kill—" he began.
"You didn't have to." Ethan's hand reached for him again, black tendrils coiling down his arm. "You just lit the fuse."