Ethan and Venom both heard the sound of screeching tires from inside the room. Thanks to their shared senses, Ethan could clearly see what Venom was seeing—black SUVs parked out front and a group of armed men in tactical gear stepping out. Their expressions were stern, focused. These weren't amateurs. Their posture, gear, and silence made it obvious—they were trained killers.
"They're here for me," Ethan muttered as he stood from the couch, his voice surprisingly calm. "Judging by the way they're dressed, they're Jon Harmon's men. How thoughtful of him. Saves me the trouble of tracking him down myself."
Ethan casually dusted off his jacket, straightened his collar, and walked toward the door while speaking to Venom.
Hearing Ethan's words, Venom gave a low, throaty chuckle and slowly retracted into his host's body. "I hope they struggle," it hissed. "I haven't had a decent meal since we tore Harvey apart."
When Ethan opened the door, five men in black suits raised their weapons instantly. Glocks outfitted with silencers—clean, professional, quiet. One of them stepped forward and said in a low, clipped voice, "Come with us, sir."
Despite having pistols aimed at his chest, Ethan smiled and raised his hands, cooperating without resistance. "Of course," he said lightly. "It'd be rude to keep your boss waiting."
They moved quickly. One of them stepped behind Ethan, pushed a gun into his back, and led him toward one of the waiting vehicles. As soon as he was inside, they slipped a blackout hood over his head, cutting off all visibility.
"Wow," Ethan scoffed beneath the fabric. "You guys are smooth. I'm guessing this isn't your first kidnapping? Very professional. Very Men in Black."
The guard beside him remained silent, though Ethan could practically feel the annoyance radiating from his body.
"Not even a chuckle? I'm pouring my heart out over here," Ethan taunted, sarcasm in full force. "What, the boss tell you all to keep quiet? Trying to make me sweat? Come on, I've been inside worse cars with scarier people—have you ever shared a cab with Sabretooth?"
Still, no one spoke.
Ethan grinned under the hood. They were disciplined, well-trained. Probably ex-mercs or defectors from one of Kingpin's old crews. Either way, they had no idea what kind of monster they were chauffeuring to their death.
"Silent treatment, huh?" Ethan said after a beat. "Don't worry. I'll remember your kindness when I'm feeding your arms to my teeth."
But the guards ignored him, keeping strictly to protocol. Despite the provocation, they didn't even flinch.
Ethan eventually fell silent. Beneath the cocky exterior, he was calm—almost happy. His hands, resting against his knees, didn't tremble. His breathing was slow and steady.
Because deep down, Ethan knew: this was it. This was the final stretch.
He hadn't forgotten what Jon Harmon had done—or what Harvey Harmon had tried to do. And he hadn't forgotten that unfinished job: cut the roots, not just the branches. That had always been his philosophy when dealing with enemies. Any hesitation, any mercy, only delayed the next attack.
The vehicle sped through Brooklyn's streets with precision, skipping red lights and avoiding main roads. They weren't amateurs. The route was pre-planned and likely monitored.
Before long, the car pulled into a gated estate. Jon Harmon's private villa—heavily fortified, built with reinforced walls and steel shutters. The kind of place designed for a kingpin who expected trouble.
Ethan was guided out of the vehicle, still hooded, flanked by two guards with military posture and sidearms drawn. They marched him through the marble-lined hallways of the estate and into a wide living room that reeked of wealth, blood, and paranoia.
Jon Harmon stood in the center, surrounded by his personal security. Ten men in total. Ethan mentally counted them as the hood was yanked off.
"1, 2, 3… yeah. Eight guys from outside plus these," he thought to himself. "Perfect. Less running around."
Holm, always the stoic second-in-command, adjusted his glasses and spoke up. "That's the one, sir. That's the man who killed Harvey."
Ethan's head tilted slightly. His eyes, glowing faintly with the influence of the symbiote, scanned the room. His expression didn't change. He didn't look intimidated. He didn't even look surprised.
Jon Harmon narrowed his eyes. "You're not even surprised," he said quietly.
"Should I be?" Ethan replied. "You sent dogs to my door. I figured the master wasn't far behind."
Jon's jaw clenched. "You murdered my brother."
"I returned the favor," Ethan said flatly. "He tried to kill me first. Guess he wasn't very good at it."
"You're going to die here," Jon snarled. "You're going to die slowly."
Ethan smiled. "You're welcome to try."
The more Jon Harmon observed, the more certain he became—this Ethan knew far too much. And that could only mean one thing: Ethan wasn't just a bystander. He was tangled in this series of events deeper than anyone else. That chilling realization narrowed Jon Harmon's eyes, a sharp and murderous gleam flashing within them like a switchblade.
Ethan didn't bother to answer the implied accusation. Instead, he looked up with a mocking grin and asked coolly, "So you're Jon Harmon? You do resemble that bastard Harvey Harmon. I guess genetics really do run deep in your family."
The insult struck like a slap. Jon's expression darkened instantly. He turned to Holm beside him, his voice cold and deliberate: "I'm done listening. Ten minutes. Make him talk."
Then, without waiting for a response, Jon stood up, intending to leave the room. Ethan's composure, his relentless arrogance—it was too much. Once Holm pried the truth out of him, Jon planned to return and deal with this smug bastard personally.
But as Jon moved toward the door, Ethan let out a booming, almost theatrical laugh.
"Hahaha! Come on, don't leave yet. We just started. Aren't you dying to know who turned your brother into paste? Why play guessing games when I can just tell you?"
He leaned forward, his smile growing wider and more wicked. "It was me. I killed him. And not just killed—popped him. Like a balloon."
Ethan made a loud bang noise with his mouth, then added, "He exploded all over the place. I'm honestly sorry. I probably made a huge mess. That must've been a nightmare for your cleaning crew."
"I bet you couldn't even collect all the pieces. Maybe some bits of him are still stuck under the furniture. But it's okay. New York's full of helpful little creatures—rats, cockroaches. They'll take care of the leftovers."
Venom's voice echoed in Ethan's mind, equal parts impressed and amused. "You're getting better at this. I think you're starting to enjoy psychological warfare."
Ethan replied mentally, tone smug. "It's an art form. In China, we call it killing the heart after killing the body. Everyone knows the lesson."
Each taunting word burrowed deeper under Jon Harmon's skin, like acid on raw nerves. His face twisted with rage. The temperature in the room seemed to spike as the blood rushed to his head.
Then—bang bang bang!!!
Without warning, Jon lunged for a bodyguard's pistol and opened fire. Bullets slammed into Ethan's chest, again and again, sending sprays of blood and fabric tearing into the air. The entire room flinched, but Jon didn't stop.
Click-click-click. The empty magazine clicked uselessly. He tossed the weapon aside, snatched another, and kept firing.
His eyes were wild—red with fury and pain. The man before him had mocked Harvey's death, thrown it in his face, laughed about it.
Even his own guards—hardened men used to brutality—watched with thinly veiled unease. Jon Harmon had lost control. The very air trembled with the weight of his wrath.
By the time he'd emptied three magazines, his breathing was ragged. His hair disheveled, sweat running down his face, Jon finally tossed the last pistol to the floor and staggered back.
"Holm!" he roared, his voice hoarse. "Get the tools! I'm going to cut this bastard into pieces—minced meat! We'll feed him to the dogs!"
Holm nodded coldly and turned to carry out the order.
But just as he moved, a strange, chilling sound filled the room.
"Haha~"
It was faint. Like a cough. Then louder.
"Haha…"
Ethan stirred.
Slowly, he raised his head and opened his eyes—glowing faintly, dark liquid trailing across his shredded shirt.
It wasn't possible.
Everyone froze.
Ethan sat upright in the chair, bloodstained but smiling. His shirt was torn, soaked in blood, but his skin beneath was unbroken, the wounds already closing. His breathing was calm. Unfazed.
What they had just seen wasn't a hallucination. The bullet holes, the carnage—they were real.
But Ethan was still alive.
Still grinning.
The guards stepped back instinctively. Even Holm's composure faltered for a second. A man who should have been dead had just shrugged off three full magazines like a mosquito bite.
Jon Harmon's mouth opened slightly, but no words came out. His eyes widened. He'd fired enough bullets to tear a normal man into chunks.
And yet…
Ethan flexed his fingers and tilted his head.
"Was that it?" he said softly, a sick smile curving his lips. "I expected a little more from the great Jon Harmon."