"It's an elderly woman. She's being mugged," Venom growled.
After focusing his hearing, Ethan's perception amplified the cries into sharp clarity—one of the benefits of bonding with a Klyntar symbiote. The panicked voice echoed through the narrow alley, layered with fear and desperation.
In an instant, black tendrils shot across Ethan's body like liquid armor. Venom enveloped him completely, morphing his figure into a dark, imposing form—a version designed to blend into shadows and strike fear. Not the monstrous, hulking build reserved for more dangerous encounters, but lean, agile, and silent.
"I've got this," Ethan muttered, voice now masked in Venom's rough modulation.
Just around the corner in a poorly lit alleyway behind a closed deli in Brooklyn, a young thug in a Yankees cap was waving a Glock, the barrel shaking slightly from either adrenaline or inexperience. He was screaming at a frail, silver-haired woman, forcing her to hand over her handbag.
The woman, her thin frame shaking uncontrollably, clutched the bag to her chest like it held her soul. "Please, I don't have much… It's just my husband's medication. He's bedridden—please!"
Tears filled her eyes as she looked up at the trembling gun.
"Hurry the hell up!" the thug snapped, eyes darting toward the street. "I swear I'll put a hole in your head if you don't give it now!"
Impatient, he snatched the bag and yanked it away with such force that its contents spilled across the ground—orange pill bottles, hospital receipts, an insurance card. No cash. Just a week's worth of medicine, neatly labeled with her husband's name: Harold Weston.
"Damn it! All this for nothing?" the thug hissed, kicking one of the bottles toward the sewer grate. "What kind of broke-ass old lady are you?"
The woman, frozen in fear, didn't retaliate—she just knelt slowly to gather the scattered pills. Her hands trembled with each bottle she retrieved. The thug turned to leave, cursing his luck and muttering how tonight had been a waste.
But before he could take two full steps, a heavy black boot slammed into his chest like a wrecking ball.
"WHAM!"
The thug flew backward, landing squarely in a pile of leaking trash bags next to the alley dumpster. His stolen loot flung from his hand, only to be intercepted mid-air by a shadowy figure with glowing white eyes.
Ethan stepped forward, catching the bag with one hand and extending it toward the old woman without saying a word. His towering figure loomed, but there was no menace in his presence—just resolve.
"Ma'am. Your bag," he said, his voice distorted, low and gritty beneath the symbiote's shell.
The woman looked up, startled—but not afraid. Somehow, her instincts told her this dark figure wasn't here to hurt her. He was the one who stopped the man with the gun.
"T-Thank you… Thank you!" she whispered, her voice breaking with emotion. She began putting the medicine bottles back in her purse with shaking hands.
"You're welcome," Ethan said softly. "It's not safe here. Avoid this alley, especially after dark. Take a cab next time, even if it's a stretch."
She nodded wordlessly, still shaken. "Thank you. May God bless you…" she whispered again as she shuffled away, clutching her bag tightly.
Ethan watched from the shadows, making sure she reached the street safely. A yellow cab slowed at the intersection, and she got in without looking back.
Suffering always seems to find the people who deserve it the least, Ethan thought, sighing internally. If he hadn't walked by when he did…
Behind him, the groaning thug in the garbage pile finally staggered to his feet, covered in bruises, banana peels, and old milk. He limped away but still had enough arrogance to shout over his shoulder.
"Y-You freakin' weirdo! Just wait! I'll be back, you masked piece of—!"
He trailed off as he caught a second look at Ethan's masked face and gleaming white eyes—much more demonic than Spider-Man's. That was enough to shut him up.
This guy ain't normal, the thug realized with a jolt of fear. He's not like those other caped guys. Something's off. Something's wrong with this one.
He took off running, his words far bolder than his heart.
Ethan turned away without a second glance. Venom retracted slightly from his face, exposing part of Ethan's jaw as he muttered, "Idiot. He doesn't even know how lucky he is we went easy on him."
"I would've bitten off at least one finger," Venom grumbled in his head, sulking.
"You say that about everyone," Ethan replied under his breath as he walked back toward the car.
"Not true. I didn't say it about Felicia."
"Because you like her."
"I like her cat smell. Also, she's shiny."
Ethan didn't argue. The banter was almost comforting now—like a soundtrack to a life he hadn't expected to be living. A vigilante bonded to an alien organism in the shadows of a city that never slept.
As he climbed back into the car, Ethan adjusted the mirror, catching one last glimpse of the old woman's cab disappearing into traffic.
Tonight, justice hadn't been loud. It had been quiet, sudden, and necessary.
And for Ethan, that was enough.
So the thug decided to make a quick call first—his bruised ribs screaming, ego shattered. But his pride wouldn't let it end there. That masked freak had humiliated him in front of a nobody. One pistol wasn't enough to handle someone like that, but five or six guys, each armed and angry? That should do the trick. One-on-one he'd been embarrassed. In a group, he wouldn't have to feel fear.
"This guy's really spineless," Venom snorted from within Ethan, watching the gangster limp out of sight. "Calling for backup like a kid who lost his lunch money."
Ethan crossed his arms and leaned against the wall casually. "Let him. If he brings the rest of his crew, cleaning them all up at once will make this block safer. One sweep instead of several."
"I swear, I'm gonna end up chewing on bullets again," Venom grumbled. "At first it was interesting—crunchy little snacks with spice. Now it's just empty calories and powder. No flavor, no thrill."
Ethan smirked faintly, keeping his senses alert. "I never intended to stir up this much trouble either. But this is New York—where handguns outnumber excuses. With illegal firearms flooding the streets, it's not a question of if someone's packing. It's how many."
Venom hissed lowly. "Fine, but if I take a bullet to the tongue again, I'm spitting it back."
"Don't worry," Ethan said as he rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck, "with how much we've been training, they won't even be able to clip me. Think of this as a live exercise."
No sooner had he spoken than the alley's silence was broken by the clatter of approaching footsteps.
The thug returned—this time flanked by five others. They came swaggering down the alley, streetlights casting long shadows over their figures. Most had pistols tucked into their jeans or flashing in hand. One wore a sleeveless jacket over a blood-red hoodie, the kind often seen among local Hell's Kitchen street gangs. They weren't just punks—they were career predators.
"That's him!" the thug from earlier shouted, pointing. "He jumped me for no reason. I was just walking!"
The bravado returned to his voice—his courage clearly inflated by numbers and steel.
One of the bigger men, bald, tattooed, and wearing brass knuckles, stepped forward. "Hey, dumbass. You think throwing on a mask makes you Spider-Man? You're on our turf now. Take it off, or we'll peel it off your corpse."
Ethan didn't move. Didn't blink. The only thing that stirred was Venom, whose voice growled through gritted teeth inside Ethan's head.
"He compared us to Spider-Man… again. This shiny bowling ball just signed his death certificate."
Ethan remained calm, but a slight twitch at the edge of his lip betrayed his irritation. He didn't mind being underestimated—but comparing him to Peter Parker?
Wrong move.
The gang didn't wait for a reply. Without further warning, they raised their weapons and opened fire.
"Bang! Bang! Bang!"
Flashes lit up the alley, the smell of gunpowder mixing with rotting trash. But Ethan was already moving.
His symbiote-enhanced reflexes activated at full force. Bullets sliced through the air—but they couldn't touch him. He dodged them effortlessly, twisting, sidestepping, flipping off the wall with inhuman grace.
Within seconds, he was in their midst.
Fists and elbows became blurs. One gangster's jaw shattered under a knee. Another was hurled into a metal dumpster, leaving a dent. One of the thugs fired in panic, only for Ethan to snatch the weapon mid-air, crush it like cardboard, and toss it aside.
"Too slow," Ethan said coldly.
Venom emerged briefly over his shoulder—eyes flaring white, teeth sharp and predatory—as if to underline his point.
Screams echoed down the alley. Some begged. Some cursed. But within less than two minutes, the alley fell silent again—save for the faint groans of bodies writhing on concrete.
They weren't dead. Not yet. But they weren't walking away on their own either.
Ethan stood at the center of the devastation, hands dripping with sweat—not blood. He didn't need to kill them to make a point. But he hadn't pulled punches either.
He wasn't Spider-Man. He didn't hold back for the comfort of villains.
These people came with intent to kill. That made them fair game.
After checking one last time to ensure none of them were armed—or getting up again—Ethan walked out of the alley and back to his car.
His heart beat steadily. His mind, however, was racing.
Ever since bonding with Venom, his life had turned upside down. He wasn't just a gifted tech prodigy anymore. He was something else now. Something feared.
He wouldn't go swinging across Manhattan rooftops every night like Peter Parker. He didn't have that kind of optimism. But when injustice crossed his path like this—when someone weak was targeted—he would intervene.
Even if it meant more enemies, more attention, and more bullets.
Venom's voice returned, softer now. "You know this isn't the end. There'll be more."
"I know," Ethan murmured. "But they'll learn."
He drove away under the dim streetlights, eyes focused ahead. The night was calm again—for now.
With every confrontation, Ethan felt himself evolving—growing into the figure fate had shoved him toward. Whether he liked it or not, he was now a part of something bigger.
As Venom often said, it wasn't just a partnership.
It was destiny.
And with that, the first stage of their story drew to a close.
But the second stage was coming—a stage that would see Ethan and Venom collide with the well-known events of Marvel Comics, classic animation arcs, and film canon. The shadows of the Marvel Universe were shifting, and they were about to step into the spotlight.
So keep reading and supporting. The first wave of recommendations is about to begin.
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