Chapter 2

(The next day in the afternoon)

Rain lashed down on New York City, fat droplets splattering against sidewalks as people scurried under umbrellas or dashed for cover, desperate to stay dry. Moments like this made Peter grateful for his new suit. He'd lost count of how many times he'd had to wring out his old Spider-Man costume after a downpour, the fabric clinging miserably to his skin. But this black suit—Venom—was like a second skin, watertight as a dry suit, shrugging off the rain without a trace.

Venom swung through the city, his hulking form slicing through the storm, jagged white eyes scanning the streets below for any hint of trouble. Mid-swing, he clenched a fist, firing a stream of thick, black tendrils that propelled him forward. These new webs were faster, stronger, and denser than his old ones, launching him with a ferocity that felt exhilarating. He was all-in on this living suit, its power thrumming through him like a live wire.

He landed on a building's rooftop, crouching low, claws gripping the edge as water streamed around him. His tongue slithered out, tasting the air, while his eyes swept the city below, alert and predatory. The rain didn't faze him—it only sharpened his focus.

A distant cry for help pierced the patter of the storm. Venom's head snapped toward the sound, his maw curling slightly. "Sounds like someone needs help!" he growled, his deep voice cutting through the rain. Leaping from the roof, he fired another tendril, swinging toward the source with purpose. "Time for the new Friendly Neighborhood Venom!"

Venom dropped silently onto the side of a building, his claws digging into the brick as he crawled down the rain-slicked wall into the dim alley below. There, a woman pressed herself against the grimy bricks, her face pale with fear as three thugs closed in on her.

"Gimme your money from yer bag, or I'll gut you!" a dark-haired thug snarled, pressing a knife to her throat, the blade catching the faint glow of a nearby streetlight.

"Better hurry up, lady; my friend can get twitchy," a blonde thug added, smirking as he hefted a bat over his shoulder, tapping it idly against his palm.

"I guess some people don't know the meaning of 'no' these days," Venom's voice rumbled from above, low and menacing. He clung to the wall upside-down behind the thugs, his jagged white eyes glowing in the shadows. The trio spun around, their faces twisting in shock as they registered the hulking black figure looming over them.

"The fuck!?" the third thug, his face marked with a crude tattoo, yelped before three inky tendrils shot from Venom's back like vipers. They wrapped around the thugs' legs, yanking them off their feet and sending them crashing to the wet pavement with pained grunts.

Venom dropped to the ground, landing with a heavy thud, his massive frame towering as the rain rolled off his glossy suit. He turned to the woman, who was shivering against the wall, her eyes wide but no longer with fear alone—now there was a flicker of hope. "You're safe now, courtesy of your friendly neighborhood Venom," he said, his toothy maw curling into what he hoped was a reassuring grin. She nodded shakily, clutching her bag, and bolted from the alley, her footsteps fading into the rain.

Now alone with the thugs, Venom's attention snapped back to them, his tongue flicking out as he loomed closer, their groans turning to whimpers under his gaze.

"Now…" Venom began, a wide, toothy grin splitting his face as he loomed over the thugs, rain dripping from his claws. "What should we do with you three?" he mused aloud, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate the air. Tendrils slithered from his shoulders, coiling like living shadows before shooting out, snatching the thugs by their torsos and slamming them against the alley wall with a bone-rattling crack.

"W-Wait, wait! W-We were just joking! We swear!" the dark-haired thug stammered, forcing a strained, terrified smile across his face, his knife long forgotten on the ground.

"Y-Yeah! We were just playing around!" the blonde added, his bat clattering to the pavement as he raised his hands, desperation dripping from every word.

"Joking, huh…" Venom growled, his jagged eyes narrowing. The tendrils yanked the tattooed thug closer, and Venom's massive clawed hand shot out, engulfing the man's entire head in a vice-like grip, squeezing just enough to make the thug's eyes bulge. "Let's see if you can still laugh when all your bones are broken into bits!" His long, red tongue lolled out, curling in the air as his wicked grin widened, sharp teeth glinting in the dim light.

The thug's muffled screams grew frantic, his body thrashing uselessly as Venom's grip tightened. His cries faded to whimpers, then silence, as his eyes rolled back, and he slumped unconscious from the pain. Venom released him, letting the thug crumple to the wet pavement like a discarded rag. He turned his gaze to the remaining two, who were frozen, faces pale and eyes wide with raw terror, their bravado shattered by the sight of their friend's fate.

"Now, as for you two…" Venom growled, his voice dripping with menace as the tendrils coiled tighter, dragging the two remaining thugs closer until they were inches from his jagged, toothy maw. "If I see you again, your skulls won't be the only things I break! Understand?" His white eyes bored into them, unblinking and merciless.

"W-what the f-fuck are you!?" the blonde thug shrieked, his voice cracking with terror, his body trembling uncontrollably in the tendrils' grip.

Venom's claws shot out, seizing one arm from each thug—blonde's left, dark-haired's right—in a grip like iron. "WE—" he roared, his voice booming through the alley, "—ARE VENOM!" With a sickening crack, he snapped both arms at the elbows, the thugs' screams tearing through the rain-soaked air. Before they could recover, the tendrils slammed their heads together with a dull thud, knocking them out cold. Their limp bodies slumped as the tendrils released them, retracting into Venom's form with a faint slither.

Venom stepped back, his maw curling into a satisfied grin as he surveyed the unconscious trio. With a flick of his wrists, he fired thick, black webbing, cocooning the thugs against the alley wall for the cops to find. Then, with a powerful leap, he shot a tendril skyward and swung away, the rain washing over him as he melted into the city's shadows, a dark thrill pulsing through him. He was satisfied—for now.

(A few moments later)

Venom swung through the rain-soaked city, tendrils firing with precision as he made his way back to his apartment. He landed against the brick wall near his bedroom window, claws gripping effortlessly. A tendril snaked out, nudging the window open, and he slipped inside, sealing it shut behind him with a faint click. The symbiote shimmered, morphing into a black shirt and brown pants as Peter's form returned to normal. He stretched his arms upward, a faint groan escaping as his muscles loosened.

We need to be stronger to protect the innocent. We know you don't like it, but violence is necessary sometimes, the symbiote's voice echoed in his mind, steady but insistent, as Peter padded toward the kitchen to whip up some lunch.

"As long as the violence is controlled and non-lethal, I agree," Peter replied, pulling out a baking dish to start assembling a lasagna. "How do you want to do this?" His hands moved deftly, layering noodles and sauce, though his mind was half on the conversation.

Now that we are fully bonded, we can make modifications to your body. But training can also help us in that regard, the symbiote explained, its tone almost clinical, like a coach laying out a game plan.

"I agree," Peter said, grabbing cheese and ingredients from the fridge and cabinets. "I've never had much time for training before—or the space, for that matter." He spread a layer of ricotta, his thoughts drifting to the cramped apartment and his packed schedule as Spider-Man.

How about we use the sewers? No one would disturb us there, the symbiote suggested, its voice slithering through Peter's mind with a practical edge.

"True," Peter nodded, spreading a last layer of cheese over the lasagna before sliding the dish into the oven and setting the timer. "At least we could transfer some equipment down there and start training in peace." The idea of a hidden, grimy gym in the sewers wasn't glamorous, but it was practical—plenty of space and no prying eyes.

He plopped onto a nearby chair, kicking back as he waited for the oven. His mind wandered, picturing how they'd set up shop underground, maybe rig some makeshift weights or use the tunnels for agility drills. A few minutes later, a sharp ding snapped him out of it. He stood, pulling the steaming lasagna from the oven and setting it on the counter, the rich aroma filling the small kitchen. Grabbing a plate, knife, and fork, he cut a generous slice and slid it onto the plate.

Peter settled back into the chair, digging into the lasagna with gusto, the warm, cheesy bite hitting just right after a long morning. Between mouthfuls, he felt the symbiote's presence, quiet but attentive, as if it were savoring the moment too.

------

Meanwhile, atop a nearby building's rooftop, the man with amethyst eyes perched on the edge, raindrops sliding harmlessly down an invisible barrier that cocooned him, keeping him dry and untouched by the storm. His ash-grey hair remained pristine, and his clawed gauntlets rested lightly on his knees, fingers fondling together thoughtfully.

"So that's where you live, huh…" he murmured, his voice soft but carrying a weight of intrigue as he gazed toward Peter's apartment building. A faint smirk tugged at his lips as he scratched his chin. "Quite the modest person you are, Parker. Maybe I should help you with that." The last word hung in the air as he vanished in a sudden burst of black flames, the fire flickering out instantly, leaving no trace of him behind—not even a scorch mark on the rain-soaked roof.

Who said you couldn't help someone by being both kind and generous?

------

After polishing off the lasagna, Peter headed to his room, his steps heavy with purpose. Standing in the center, he let out a slow breath and relinquished control to the symbiote. The black suit surged over him, swallowing his form as his consciousness faded, slipping into a deep, dreamless void. Venom took over, tendrils erupting from his body, anchoring him above the floor like a spider in its web. The tendrils wove together, encasing him in a pulsating, inky cocoon that pulsed faintly in the dim light, beginning enhancing their shared form.

(The next day in the morning)

Venom stirred within the cocoon, his jagged white eyes flickering to life. With a low growl, he flexed his claws, slicing through the fibrous shell and stepping free, the remnants dissolving into the suit. He stretched, his symbiote-covered muscles rippling, still aching from the transformation's toll—a dull burn that spoke of power earned.

We have finished enhancing your entire body. You must now replenish yourself, the symbiote whispered, its voice a steady hum in his mind.

Venom's form shimmered, retracting into Peter's human body as he padded to the bathroom to check himself out. Peter froze in the mirror, blinking at his reflection. He'd gained a few inches in height, his frame broader, shoulders wider—his lean, athletic build had morphed into something closer to a bodybuilder's, dense with muscle that strained against his skin. He turned slightly, inspecting the changes, a mix of awe and disbelief in his eyes.

We reinforced your skeleton and musculature, but we will need some work to reach our full potential, the symbiote explained, its tone pragmatic, like a trainer outlining the next phase.

"Figures it wouldn't be that easy…" Peter muttered, splashing cold water on his face to shake off the grogginess. He grabbed his toothbrush, scrubbing as he processed the extra weight of his body, each movement feeling heavier, stronger. After rinsing, he headed to the kitchen, his mind already turning to what he'd need to fuel this upgraded frame.

Peter whipped up a stack of chicken sandwiches, the savory aroma mingling with the sharp scent of freshly brewed coffee. He settled into a chair, plate in hand, and dug into his morning meal, the bread crunching satisfyingly with each bite.

"While we're eating our morning lunch," Peter said mid-sip of his coffee, the warmth spreading through him, "what exactly does Klyntar eat?"

We sustain ourselves by feeding on the host's adrenaline and the phenethylamine that gathers in the human brain. Without them, we starve, and the hunger sets in, driving us to do anything to sate it, the symbiote replied, its voice calm but carrying a faint edge, like a warning wrapped in explanation.

"I see…" Peter chewed thoughtfully, swallowing a bite. "I know chocolate's got phenethylamine. And with adrenaline, I don't see that being a problem—I was pretty much an adrenaline junkie before all this." He grinned, finishing off the last sandwich and leaning back in his chair, feeling the new bulk of his body settle comfortably.

His eyes flicked to the clock on the wall: 9:00 a.m. "Crap!" he blurted, his eyes widening. "I was supposed to be at the Daily Bugle by 10!" He shot to his feet, bolting to his room. Snatching his camera from the desk, he willed the symbiote to take over. The black suit surged over him, absorbing the camera seamlessly into its mass as his frame bulked up slightly, the recent enhancements making him broader, heavier. Venom leaped through the open window, firing a thick tendril to web-swing toward the Daily Bugle, his movements fluid but carrying a new weight that carved through the morning air.

Venom landed on a rooftop near the Daily Bugle with seconds to spare, the symbiote rippling over him as it shifted and retreated. In a fluid motion, it transformed into a pair of dark jeans, a tight white t-shirt that hugged his newly broadened frame, and a brown leather jacket that gave him a casual, rugged edge. Peter sprinted to the building, slipping into the elevator just as the doors closed, and rode it up to the office floor.

He hustled through the bustling newsroom, dodging interns and stacks of papers, and entered J. Jonah Jameson's office, where the man himself sat behind a cluttered desk, puffing on a cigar. "About time, Parker. I thought you'd be late," Jameson grumbled, his eyes narrowing as he looked Peter up and down. "Is that you, Parker? You've been working out…"

"Yeah, I did for some time," Peter said, scratching the back of his head with a sheepish grin, hoping to deflect further scrutiny.

Jameson shook his head, dismissing the thought. "Never mind," he muttered, turning his attention to a reporter standing nearby. "Anyway, you said you have new information about Spider-Man."

The reporter nodded eagerly. "According to police reports, an all-black Spider-Man ripped through the roof of a car the NYPD was chasing through Queens and made the heisters crash into a lamppost."

"That's interesting…" Jameson said, leaning forward, his hands clasped under his chin, a glint of intrigue in his eyes.

"We managed to retrieve live footage of him from a city camera; the quality and sound are solid," the reporter continued. "We also got testimony from a woman attacked by thugs yesterday. Looks like Spider-Man's changed his name to Venom. Plus, the thugs who attacked her took a beating—two had their left and right arms broken at the elbow, respectively, and the third had cracks in his skull, according to hospital X-rays."

"Perfect!" Jameson crowed, a gleeful smile spreading across his face as he slammed a hand on the desk. "Prepare the story immediately. With this, Spider-Man will finally be recognized as what he's always been: a threat!"

Peter sighed inwardly, keeping his face neutral. He'd known the word of his new look—and new methods—would reach Jameson, eventually. The man's vendetta against Spider-Man was practically a law of nature. Still, hearing it laid out like this, twisted into a headline, stung more than he'd expected.

Peter brushed off Jameson's rant, his resolve unshaken. Bonding with the symbiote came with a cost—he'd known that from the start. The headlines, the suspicion, the scrutiny—they were just part of the deal. He wasn't about to ditch Venom over a few harsh words; he'd face the consequences head-on.

"Parker, I need photos of him in an hour!" Jameson bellowed, his voice chasing Peter out of the office.

"Of course, Mr. Jameson," Peter replied with a curt nod, already halfway out the door. He slipped through the newsroom and out of the Daily Bugle, his jaw tight. Jameson would be relentless now that Venom was on his radar, but that was a problem for later.

Stupid human. We should have turned him into mincemeat. Nobody would miss him, the symbiote growled in Peter's mind, its tone laced with venomous disdain.

Killing him wouldn't help us, Peter thought back, weaving through pedestrians on the sidewalk. It'd only tarnish our image, and the public would turn against us—not to mention the NYPD breathing down our necks. He kept his mental voice calm, reasoning with the symbiote like a partner, not a master.

Rounding the corner of the Daily Bugle, Peter ducked into a shadowed alley. The symbiote surged over him, transforming him into Venom, his bulkier frame rippling with power. With a powerful leap, he fired a tendril and swung skyward, the city blurring beneath him as he headed out to "capture" photos of himself.

Venom landed on a rusty emergency staircase clinging to a brick building, the metal creaking under his weight. Willing the camera to emerge from the suit, he secured it with a tendril, programming the timer with practiced ease. He struck a pose—hulking, menacing, with his tongue curling and claws flexed—as the camera flashed, snapping a perfect shot of the city's new vigilante.

With the photos taken care of, Venom pocketed the camera back into the suit and launched himself into the air, swinging through New York's concrete canyons. His jagged eyes scanned the streets below, searching for trouble—thugs, robbers, or anything else that needed a dose of fear to set it straight.

Just another day for Peter Parker.