In Queens, nestled inside a modern, luxuriously furnished penthouse overlooking Astoria Park, a middle-aged man stood by a floor-to-ceiling window, his brows tightly furrowed as he stared down at the phone in his hand. The call had gone unanswered—again.
He looked ordinary at first glance—mid-forties, clean-shaven, average build—but anyone with street instincts would notice the quiet cruelty buried in his eyes, a kind of disciplined violence that only came from years of operating in the shadows. This was Paul Mark, a mid-tier lieutenant of the Bloodhead Gang—and the same man who had once opened his apartment door to accept Ethan's "mistaken" food delivery.
"Damn it… Why isn't that idiot answering?" Paul muttered, glaring at the black screen as if it owed him something. "He wouldn't just go radio silent. Not Rick."
He had already made two calls. Even if Rick Frey had been drunk, in bed with a woman, or passed out after gambling—he should've answered by now. For the past few years, Rick had been reliable. Not smart, but dependable enough to carry out wet work without asking questions.
Paul turned slightly, swirling the bourbon in his crystal tumbler. Amber liquid shimmered in the low lighting, swirling around the large sphere of ice with a rhythmic clinking sound that echoed softly in the otherwise silent room.
"Did something go wrong?" he murmured aloud.
He'd originally called just to verify cleanup from the hit. A few days ago, Rick had assured him that Ethan—the target—and the woman had been "taken care of." No loose ends. But earlier today, one of Paul's street-level men swore he saw Ethan walking casually through Midtown. Alive. Unbothered.
If that were true, it wasn't just a mistake—it was a breach. A threat to the Bloodhead Gang's secrecy. One Harvey Harmon would not take lightly.
Paul redialed.
"Beep… beep… beep…"
Still no answer. He let the line ring longer this time—long enough to confirm Rick wasn't just ignoring him—but hung up before the voicemail prompt kicked in.
The silence was louder than any gunshot.
Years of underworld experience told Paul all he needed to know: Rick Frey was likely dead. How or why didn't matter right now. What mattered was adjusting.
Rick had always been a tool—a throwaway asset in Paul's eyes. But even expendables had their uses. And he had expected Rick to last at least long enough to finish the cleanup.
Paul didn't yet suspect retaliation. In his mind, Rick probably got into trouble on his own—maybe insulted the wrong gambler, or OD'd on cheap junk. It wouldn't be the first time a lackey met a stupid end.
Still, the possibility that Ethan had survived—and might be hunting—couldn't be ignored.
Paul finished the last of his bourbon in one smooth gulp, then tapped a different number into his burner phone.
"Didn't you tell me you saw that college punk in Midtown?" Paul said into the receiver. His tone was casual, but his eyes were sharp. "Good. I want you to trail him tomorrow. If it's really him, deal with it. Quietly. No mistakes. Got it?"
The voice on the other end gave a nervous confirmation. Paul hung up without a goodbye.
After a brief pause, Paul stepped away from the window and muttered to himself, "Tomorrow, I'll check Rick's place myself. If that dumbass overdosed, at least I'll get his burner and clean up whatever he left behind."
Meanwhile, across the river in Brooklyn, morning sunlight spilled through the cracked blinds of a cramped apartment. Ethan was calmly finishing breakfast, dressed in a simple black hoodie and sweatpants. Seated across from him at the kitchen table was something far less calm.
Venom.
The symbiote had shaped part of itself into a crude humanoid form for convenience. It hunched over the table like a starved beast, its black tendrils twitching in anticipation. In front of it sat a towering plate stacked with deep-fried youtiao—Chinese dough sticks—and beside that was a two-chambered pitcher: one side filled with warm soy milk, the other with steaming hot cocoa.
Venom dipped one youtiao into the cocoa with gleeful speed and slurped it down whole. The crunch echoed through the room.
"Slow down," Ethan said dryly, taking a delicate bite of his own breakfast. He dipped his dough stick with methodical precision, sipping the soy milk like someone enjoying a peaceful weekend.
"You eat like a bird," Venom complained, sloshing more cocoa onto the table. "This body needs fuel. Glucose. Fats. Chocolate!"
"You also said yesterday that brains are the perfect meal," Ethan shot back. "Chocolate's a downgrade. Maybe you're going soft."
Venom paused for half a second—then snarled in mock offense. "Never. I'm only compromising because you refused to let me eat Frey's."
Ethan didn't respond. He just drank from his soy milk and stared out the window, mind already shifting back to the data they'd gathered. Paul Mark was alive. Still working behind the curtain.
And Ethan had no intention of staying passive.
Venom coiled a few golden-brown youtiao together like a bundle of noodles and shoved them into his jagged maw. Holding an absurdly oversized dual-straw cup with one black tendril, he slurped soy milk from one side, then hot cocoa from the other, letting out a contented sigh between gulps.
"Ahhh~ Human food is truly divine. Chinese cuisine, especially, is superior," Venom declared with exaggerated reverence, leaning back in the chair as his tendrils wiped away stray crumbs.
He grunted in nostalgia. "Back when I was stuck with Peter Parker, we barely scraped by. Cramped apartments, burnt toast, greasy pizza if we were lucky. And don't get me started on those stale New York hot dogs." His eyes scanned the bright, clean Brooklyn kitchen with a glint of pride. "But now? Spacious living. Full stomach. Unlimited chocolate."
Across from him, Ethan—formerly Chen Lin'an—was calmly sipping soy milk, having just polished off his modest breakfast. Venom, as always, ate like a starving beast; Ethan, like a quiet monk.
Suddenly, Venom's eyes lit up with curiosity. "By the way! You mentioned something called tofu nao the other day. When do we try that? It sounded delicious! Brain-based delicacies—just the thought makes me giddy."
Ethan paused with the straw still at his lips, then gave a half-smile. "You misunderstood. Tofu nao—or tofu pudding—is made from soft tofu. It's not actual brain, just a silky soybean curd. No neural tissue. No… brain juice."
Venom froze mid-slurp, visibly deflating. "Whaaat? No brains? Not even fake ones? That's disappointing. I've been dreaming about brain jelly for weeks…"
Ethan chuckled under his breath. "Sorry to ruin your fantasy."
Venom sighed dramatically, but perked up again almost instantly. "Wait—are there real brain dishes in human cuisine? Surely someone eats the real deal!"
"Technically, yeah," Ethan said thoughtfully, setting down his glass. "There's pig brain in hot pot. Also spicy rabbit heads, roasted sheep heads, even chicken heads. Chinese regional dishes. Mostly Sichuan and Chongqing styles."
Venom gasped—literally—his mouth twitching with anticipation. "You're serious? That sounds glorious! So tender… so flavorful… small heads, maybe, but I can just eat more."
"I haven't tried them myself," Ethan admitted. "Heard they're tasty if you're into that. But honestly? I never had the guts."
"Tch. Coward," Venom clicked his tongue. "We're going. We must. I can already imagine the flavor… Steamed skulls, sizzling spices, crunchy eye sockets—mmmmm."
"Don't get too excited," Ethan replied dryly. "We don't have time to fly to Sichuan for your weird cravings. School's starting again soon, and we've got enough on our plate already."
Venom grunted in protest.
"That said," Ethan added, "New York is full of Chinese communities—Flushing, Sunset Park, Chinatown. If we ask around, we might find someone serving it."
Venom clapped—somehow—his hands/tendrils together. "Yes! A quest! A culinary adventure! Lead me, oh wise host!"
Ethan sighed again, then tapped the edge of the table. "Alright, breakfast's over. Help me clear the table and wash the dishes."
Venom recoiled in mock horror. "Wash the dishes? Do you realize what you're asking? I am Venom! A noble Klyntar warrior of the Symbiote species! A living weapon! You would reduce me to a kitchen slave?"
"A piece of chocolate," Ethan offered without looking up, raising one finger with calm authority.
Venom squinted suspiciously. "You think I'll bend for one piece? Please. I'm not some street urchin."
"Five bucks' worth. Hazelnut," Ethan said flatly, raising another finger.
Venom stopped mid-rant, blinked, then suddenly beamed. "Deal!"
In the next instant, all the dishes vanished from the table in a blur of tendrils. Venom zipped off to the kitchen, humming an off-key tune that sounded vaguely like a Skrull war chant played on a broken kazoo. Plates clattered, water sloshed, and from the sink came the contented muttering of a symbiote who, apparently, could be bribed with gourmet bribes and small acts of dignity.