After about five minutes of processing, the facial recognition software Ethan had hastily written returned several matches from the NYPD's criminal database. It wasn't definitive—he still had to filter the results manually.
Scanning the screen, Venom's voice immediately growled in his head. "That's him. No mistake. I remember the scent of his fear."
Ethan's eyes snapped to the selected image. He clicked into the profile.
"Rick Frey. Thirty years old." On-screen, a white male with a buzz cut and dead, predatory eyes stared into the camera with defiance and arrogance.
"He was arrested for armed robbery and aggravated assault," Ethan read aloud, his tone darkening. "Later released on bail due to 'insufficient evidence.' Typical."
Venom hissed in disgust. "Doesn't look like just a street thug. There's something organized about him."
Ethan clenched his jaw, locking his gaze on Rick's photo. Every line of that smirking face burned itself into his memory. "Now that we've got a name and a face, there's nowhere left for him to hide. I'll make sure he regrets ever walking free."
"And I'll make sure he doesn't walk again," Venom snarled. "He'll feed me well—one head at a time."
They continued digging through the criminal file. The background section was relatively vague about his early life, but everything post-incarceration painted a clearer picture. He'd fallen in with a rising triad offshoot known as the Bloodhead Gang, a newer faction gaining territory in parts of Brooklyn and Queens.
According to scattered intelligence and arrest records, Rick Frey operated at the mid-lower tier—not quite muscle-for-hire, but trusted enough to handle dirty jobs without supervision.
Still, the evidence was all circumstantial. No formal charges had ever stuck, and most mentions of the Bloodhead Gang in the file were redacted or flagged as "unverified."
Ethan leaned back slightly and murmured, "So, was he acting under gang orders… or just on his own?"
Venom bared its teeth within his mind. "Why speculate? We'll ask him when we find him. He'll sing—right before he screams."
The alien's scarlet tongue flicked across imaginary fangs as it envisioned the confrontation.
Ethan cracked a small, grim smile. "Yeah. There's no point theorizing now."
He scrolled further through the gang references. The Bloodhead Gang's presence in the NYPD database was surprisingly shallow—almost suspiciously so. Most entries were for low-level members or nameless affiliates. There was no trace of leadership, hierarchy, or large-scale activity.
"No deep structure, no known bosses… The NYPD database makes it look like they're just scattered street trash," Ethan noted. "But that can't be the whole picture."
He picked up the original sketch Venom had drawn—the near-perfect likeness of Rick Frey—and narrowed his eyes.
"You're the thread. Once I tug on you, the whole gang's going to unravel."
With the last of the digital breadcrumbs collected, Ethan scrubbed all traces of their access, shut the terminal down, and exited the records room the same way he came in—quiet, invisible, and fast.
Gliding through the night, the wind slicing past his ears, he felt more agile than before. He was growing used to Venom's movements—merging more with the symbiote's rhythm and reflexes. It no longer felt foreign. It felt like power.
Back home, he landed on the apartment balcony and peeled back the symbiote's mask. He stepped into his room, sat down at his desk, and cleared it off before booting up his personal rig.
A stack of papyrus-thin notepads sat beside him—just in case inspiration struck the old-school way.
That trip to the police station had sparked a new idea. All he had on Rick Frey was a name and a picture. He had no idea how long it would take to run into him again—or how many layers of protection Rick might have now that he was exposed.
Venom watched silently as Ethan's fingers flew across the keyboard. "You're coding again? What now?"
Ethan nodded without stopping. "I'm making a new version of the software. A better one."
"We've got no other way to gather intel, so I'm going to link this upgraded facial recognition system to the city's surveillance grid."
"That way, if any camera in New York picks up Rick Frey's face—or anyone who looks remotely like him—it'll ping me directly."
Venom's voice curled with excitement. "You're hacking the entire city?"
"Not all at once," Ethan replied calmly. "I'll piggyback into sector by sector—starting with lower Manhattan and the outer boroughs."
"But yeah. That's the plan. Once it's in place, I'll have eyes everywhere."
He paused, glancing at Venom's reflection in the dark screen.
"It won't be easy," he added. "Getting past Stark's satellite lockdowns, avoiding S.H.I.E.L.D. triggers, bypassing Oscorp firewalls in linked towers… It's a whole different game now."
"Then it's a good thing we're playing it together," Venom said, its teeth gleaming in the monitor's faint glow.
Ethan gave a satisfied smirk.
"Time to hunt."
"And since the number of public surveillance cameras in New York City is still limited, and most of them aren't equipped with the latest StarkTech recognition systems, the software can't run full auto-identification," Ethan explained as his fingers danced over the keyboard. "That means the system still requires some manual verification once a facial match is flagged."
"This gives us a bit of an edge," he muttered to himself. "A window. A chance."
Venom growled lowly in agreement, licking its jagged, glistening teeth inside Ethan's mind. "I can feel it too. He won't be hiding much longer."
Ethan's eyes narrowed. "I've got a feeling it's only a matter of time before we get a hit."
"I can't wait to sink my teeth into him," Venom added, its voice curling with hunger.
While Ethan continued refining the tracking algorithm from his apartment in Hell's Kitchen, deep beneath Queens, in a damp, poorly lit basement, a man tossed and turned on a moldy cot, his breathing erratic and shallow.
That man—Rick Frey—was the very one Ethan was hunting.
Despite years of running jobs for the Bloodhead Gang, despite dozens of break-ins, assaults, and back-alley hits, tonight felt different. Rick couldn't shake the unease pressing against his chest.
He'd done jobs like this before—quick, messy, and off the books. And yet, something about the latest target, the one his crew ambushed two nights ago, lingered in his mind. It wasn't just guilt. It was fear.
Years of surviving gang life in New York had taught Rick one thing: never ignore your gut.
Originally, he'd been ordered to lay low. The gang's boss had stashed him here after the hit—"Let the heat blow over," they said. Stay put, stay quiet. Wait. But Rick couldn't sleep. Couldn't think straight. Something was coming.
He sat upright in the creaky bed, rubbed his stubbled jaw, and reached for his old duffel bag.
"I need to get the hell out of here."
He began stuffing the essentials into a weathered suitcase—cash, burner phone, passport. Rick knew a guy down at the docks who could get him onto a cargo freighter heading south. Maybe to Brazil. Maybe somewhere further. Anywhere but here.
This wasn't just paranoia. It was instinct. And in the underworld, instincts kept you breathing.
Still, he couldn't help but think about what this job meant for him. The payout was just the start. His boss—Gallo—had hinted at a promotion. A seat at the table. No more street-level work, no more second-hand orders. He'd be a made man. Respect, cash, girls, power—and all the white powder he could snort.
The Bloodhead Gang wasn't some random street crew. It was a deep-rooted criminal network with turf in Queens, Brooklyn, and parts of Harlem. Their influence spread through laundromats, backroom casinos, and under-the-table deals with shady politicians.
As long as you were loyal, you got paid. Rick had done his time. This job was supposed to be his stepping stone.
He paused, zipping up his bag, his mind flashing to a memory from last month: a photograph passed around among the crew. A traitor. Someone who'd sold gang secrets to a rival syndicate tied to the Maggia. Rick still remembered the aftermath. The guy's body had been found in a Staten Island junkyard, bones shattered, limbs twisted at impossible angles, the flesh half-dissolved in acid.
The work of Vince Dargo, the Bloodhead Gang's second-in-command. The kind of guy who smiled while breaking your spine.
Rick shivered, shook the image from his head, and forced a grin.
"No use worrying about that now. Once I'm back, I'll have my own crew. I'll be the one calling shots."
He leaned back against the wall, lighting a cigarette with shaking hands. A grin returned to his lips as he imagined the perks of power.
"When I return… I'll have ten girls on my lap at once. Hah. Screw hiding."
His grotesque laughter echoed through the dark concrete walls of the basement, hollow and cracked like his soul.
Outside, perched atop the streetlamp just beyond the basement window, a pair of crows stirred in the tree branches. They cawed loudly into the cold night air—ominous and sharp—like omens on the wind.