Hearing Venom repeat the warning, Ethan slumped back and covered his head, letting out a groan of frustration. "This is seriously messed up. Having a ticking time bomb in my skull is bad enough… and now it's like the damn pin's already been pulled."
Venom gave his shoulder a sympathetic pat, his voice surprisingly gentle for once. "Calm down. Yeah, it's not ideal, but we're not at the meltdown stage yet. Keep your emotions in check, especially anger. The more agitated you get, the faster things spiral."
"Focus on stabilizing your mental state. The body's getting stronger every day, but that won't matter if your mind collapses under its own weight."
Venom's inky form swirled slightly as he emphasized his next point. "Use this period to train both. Push yourself to control your mental power. That stress might even trigger faster evolution in your physical abilities. Controlled pressure can be a catalyst."
"Bottom line: explore your limits and stay emotionally stable. We've only just started living. I'm not about to let us burn out before we've really begun."
Ethan exhaled slowly. He had to admit, Venom's advice made sense. It wasn't just about power—it was about sustainability. If he didn't get a grip on his mental strength, all his physical progress would be meaningless.
So, to avoid an early grave, he made a mental note to start experimenting with any method he could find. Meditation, breath control, even the yoga techniques Venom jokingly mentioned last week. At the time, he'd dismissed them as nonsense, but after some research, it turned out they might be the only tangible options available to him right now.
He'd have to dig deeper—books, online guides, forums. Anything that could help him regain control before it was too late.
"Still," he muttered, glancing at Venom, "we don't even have a lead on Jon Harmon's location or info. If I had that, maybe I could just deal with him and be done with it."
Venom crossed his arms and nodded. "Yeah, but it's been two full days already. He definitely knows his brother's dead by now. That window for surprise? Long gone."
"Wait—what?" Ethan shot upright on the bed, eyes wide. "It's been two days? Why the hell didn't you tell me earlier?!"
Venom lifted his clawed hands in mock defense. "You didn't ask. And to be fair, we had a lot going on when you woke up. It slipped my mind."
Ethan sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Perfect. Just perfect. That bastard's probably already moving."
"No doubt," Venom added. "It even made the news. National coverage."
Ethan tensed. "You're kidding."
"Nope," Venom replied. "Police told the media they'd never seen anything this brutal. Said it was both calculated and savage. Your handiwork got you a nickname too—'The Blaster.' Apparently, because the room looked like someone set off a psychic grenade."
Ethan winced. "Blaster? That's the best they could come up with?"
"Exactly!" Venom huffed, indignant. "What kind of name is that? No nuance. No identity. Sounds like a second-rate video game villain. Like 'The Bomber' or 'The Smasher.' No creativity. No mystery."
If it weren't for the gravity of the situation, Ethan might've laughed. For all his menace, Venom could really ramble—especially when something offended his sense of style or pride. Maybe it was Peter Parker's old personality rubbing off, or maybe it was just Venom being Venom.
Still, Ethan couldn't shake the growing unease. If the story was public knowledge, then Jon Harmon had definitely seen it. Unless the guy was blind, deaf, and living under a rock, he already knew everything.
"Damn it," Ethan muttered under his breath. "Another plan ruined…"
He paused.
"…Well, not ruined. I guess I never even had a proper plan to begin with."
He stared blankly at the ceiling, headache pulsing beneath his skin. Everything felt like it was spiraling—his powers, his mind, his enemies.
"What the hell am I supposed to do now?"
In a luxurious villa hidden deep within the wooded outskirts of New York, a man who appeared to be in his early forties sat cross-legged on a leather sofa, his eyes shut in quiet meditation.
His tousled blond hair gave him a rugged edge, and the scruff on his face suggested he hadn't groomed in days. Yet even with the fatigue apparent in his features, his sharp cheekbones and firm jawline hinted at a man who once turned heads—a handsome face hardened by years of command and violence.
This man was Jon Harmon, elder brother of Harvey Harmon. In contrast to Harvey's brute-force aura and street-hardened demeanor, Jon exuded the cold sophistication of a seasoned tactician. His presence alone radiated authority—a silent oppression that kept the room around him frozen.
The oppressive stillness was palpable. Men in black suits lined the walls of the spacious chamber, some standing guard, others waiting for orders. Yet none of them spoke. No one dared. Even the sound of their own breathing was kept in check.
Then, finally, the silence cracked.
"Clack, clack, clack."
The echo of leather shoes on polished wood rang clear, breaking the tension like a blade. A man in a fitted black suit approached Jon Harmon's seat. His brown hair was immaculately slicked back with product, and his gold-rimmed glasses framed sharp blue eyes that gleamed with quiet intelligence.
"Boss," the man said with a nod, his voice calm and respectful, "the NYPD investigation has reached a dead end. No evidence, no leads, and the suspect's trail has gone completely cold."
"However, I've started an internal trace. I questioned some of your brother's subordinates and uncovered a few irregularities."
He extended a neatly prepared report to Jon, pausing before continuing.
"On its own, the intel seems minor. But considering the circumstances, I believe it may be the key thread. There was no other deviation in Harvey's behavior pattern before his death—except this."
At the sound of the man's voice, Jon Harmon finally stirred. His eyes opened, revealing bloodshot irises the same sharp blue as his brother's, but clouded now with suppressed fury and exhaustion.
As he straightened his posture, a chilling pressure rolled out from his seated form. His aura was not loud—it was suffocating in its silence. The air in the room grew heavier. Everyone present stiffened.
They knew all too well that their boss had been volatile lately. In just a few days, more than a dozen men—both staff and outsiders—had disappeared without a trace. Jon hadn't tolerated failure. No one wanted to become the next unspoken example.
Jon accepted the report without a word. As he flipped through the pages, he casually picked up the crystal tumbler beside him and took a slow sip of bourbon, letting the burn settle into his throat.
"So… a few days before the incident, Harvey ordered one of his men to deal with a college kid—a delivery driver."
He turned a page, voice cold and steady, almost mechanical.
"And now that same kid is alive and well… but my brother is in the ground."
The suited man pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and nodded. "Yes, sir. Your brother handed the job to Paul Mark, and Paul, in turn, offloaded the task to a lower-level enforcer—Rick Frey."
"Frey staged a traffic accident to make it look like a random hit-and-run. The student was injured, but survived. The twist is, shortly after that… both Frey and Paul vanished. Their families, friends, even our network—no one could reach them. Then two days ago, your brother followed them into the grave."
Jon's eyes narrowed as he absorbed the sequence.
"From this chain of events," the man continued, "the most plausible conclusion is that the delivery boy is deeply involved. If he didn't do it himself, then he at least knows something."
"More likely," he added, adjusting his glasses again, "he did do it—out of revenge. Though he survived the accident, the old man who died at the scene was reportedly his legal guardian, someone who took him in years ago."
"That kind of loss could be motive enough for someone with the right background."
Jon Harmon leaned back, eyes gleaming with dangerous clarity now. "Find him."
The others in the room exhaled quietly as the tension shifted.
The hunt had officially begun.