CHAPTER 43

On the ride home, Felicia and Ethan chatted warmly, the energy between them unusually lighthearted after such a harrowing day. Despite the chaos of the attack at the exhibition hall, laughter slowly returned to their conversation, and their minds gradually drifted away from the horrors they had witnessed.

After dropping her off and watching Felicia's black sports car disappear down the dim-lit street, Ethan turned and made his way back to his apartment in Queens. Once inside, he slumped on the aging sofa, arms splayed, letting out a long exhale.

"What a weekend," he muttered. "All I wanted was to see some history exhibits. Instead I got ambushed by a knockoff Green Goblin."

Nobody would call that kind of luck anything other than cursed.

After a few minutes of lying still, he reached for his phone and began ordering food—pizza, curly fries, a pair of hot dogs, and a hefty bag of mixed snacks. Not exactly a gourmet meal, but enough to replenish the calories he and Venom had torched during the fight. Between dodging flaming pumpkin bombs and hurling them out of the museum, the two of them had barely eaten all day.

Takeout was never as satisfying as a home-cooked meal, but it was fast, greasy, and full of carbs—just what the symbiote ordered.

When the food finally arrived, Ethan devoured it in record time. Venom, eager and ravenous, surged out from his shoulder and greedily tore into the snacks. Within minutes, the boxes were empty, the wrappers crumpled, and both man and symbiote were sprawled out across the couch, satisfied but heavy.

Venom lounged beside him, still gnawing on chunks of chocolate, and slurping from a 2-liter bottle of soda he referred to—somehow endearingly—as Fat House Happy Water.

"Hiccup~~!" Venom let out a long, guttural belch from his monstrous maw, smacking his inky lips as if he had a belly to pat. He fished a sticky glob of chocolate from between his jagged teeth and sighed theatrically. "Hnnng~ Chocolate and cola make everything better… But no juicy brains lately. That's depressing."

Ethan rolled his eyes and gave his stomach a lazy rub. "You've had more than enough to eat today. And besides, chocolate's better for you. No messy cleanups. No cops. No Spider-Man showing up out of nowhere."

"But it's not the same," Venom whined, his eyes narrowing into pale crescents. "You don't get it. Wanting brains isn't just a craving—it's instinctual. Like humans needing food, water… or mating when it's time to reproduce."

Ethan glanced at him, eyebrow raised. "That escalated quickly."

"It's true!" Venom insisted. "Symbiotes are built to find strong hosts. It's coded into our cells. But the real draw? Phenethylamine. It's in human brains—like natural candy for us."

"You do realize chocolate contains phenethylamine, right?" Ethan countered. "It's literally one of the few things that keeps your chemical balance in check without someone dying. That's the whole point of this arrangement. No innocent people. No heads."

Venom grunted. "It's not the taste, it's the instinct. You ever try to override your instincts?"

Ethan shot back, "Sure. Humans used to eat raw meat too. Then fire came along and boom—steak. What we're doing is evolution. And honestly, I'm not keen on the idea of you chewing someone's skull because you're bored."

The symbiote paused mid-bite. It was clear he wanted to argue—but after a moment, he simply groaned and flopped down, muttering, "Fine. Chocolate's… okay. But I'm a warrior. I miss battle snacks."

Ethan snorted. "You mean brains."

"Battle snacks," Venom corrected smugly.

But the comment triggered a flood of memories—Ethan's thoughts drifted back to the museum, the explosion, the crowd screaming, and Hobgoblin escaping through the ceiling.

New York really couldn't go a single week without chaos erupting.

"I just wanted a quiet day," Ethan muttered aloud. "See some artifacts, maybe flirt with Felicia. But no, out comes another freak in a Halloween costume with flying tech and military-grade explosives."

"Welcome to New York," Venom replied, licking melted chocolate off his claw. "Home of bagels, rats the size of dogs, and unstable weirdos with bombs."

Despite himself, Ethan chuckled. But inside, he knew the situation was far from over.

Hobgoblin didn't just appear out of nowhere. He had access to gear that could only come from Oscorp's black market vaults or a supplier with deep criminal connections. The glider tech, the pumpkin bombs—they were modified versions of Norman Osborn's original designs.

And anyone capable of acquiring those? That was a red flag.

Someone big was moving pieces behind the scenes.

Ethan leaned his head back, staring at the cracked ceiling of his tiny apartment. As much as he wanted to rest, he knew this wasn't the end of it. His instincts screamed it.

From somewhere deep inside, Venom spoke again—but this time, his voice was different. Lower. More serious.

"They're watching us. Someone saw what we did today."

Ethan narrowed his eyes.

"Yeah," he muttered. "And I think I know who."

It seemed that even if Ethan didn't actively go looking for trouble, trouble would still find its way to him. As his thoughts wandered, he suddenly understood why Peter Parker—the real Spider-Man—was always busy, often seen perched on a rooftop with a slice of pizza in hand or munching on a cheap hot dog from a vendor stand.

In a city like New York, one that never truly slept and where reality itself bent around superpowers, mutants, alien symbiotes, and criminal masterminds, the number of unstable and violent criminals who called themselves "supervillains" kept increasing. Hobgoblin was just one more added to the mix—a maniac armed with stolen Oscorp tech and no fear of mass casualties.

And Spider-Man? He didn't even kill. He took the high road, always working alone, swinging from borough to borough, apprehending threats and handing them over to the NYPD like clockwork. No praise. No rest. No finality.

Ethan now saw just how endless the cycle truly was.

In a world where the likes of Electro, Vulture, Shocker, or even lesser-known villains like Speed Demon kept returning from prison—often more dangerous than before—it wasn't just crime-fighting. It was containment. And in many cases, even containment failed.

He found himself feeling regret over today's events. He'd nearly caught Hobgoblin—nearly ended his spree right then and there. But in the end, he'd failed. The masked lunatic had used a series of high-yield pumpkin bombs to force Ethan into an impossible choice: save the crowd or pursue the villain.

He saved the innocents.

Hobgoblin escaped.

If the bastard hadn't rigged the entire venue to blow or gone into full kamikaze mode, Ethan could have ended his criminal career right in that exhibition hall.

And he would've done it without hesitation.

He didn't pity murderers. He didn't see them as tragic figures. When those bombs exploded and the ceiling collapsed, he heard the screams of civilians—innocent men and women crushed beneath falling debris. Their cries echoed in his mind still.

Justice, real justice, wasn't just about laws. It was about closure. If murderers weren't stopped, how could the dead rest? How could their families, their partners, their friends ever find peace?

Just like the deaths of Harvey Harmon and Jon Harmon.

Ethan would never be at ease until those responsible were either locked away forever or buried six feet under.

Meanwhile, in the heart of Manhattan, inside a skyscraper lined with obsidian glass and guarded by layers of silent muscle, a towering figure sat behind an opulent desk reinforced to bear his sheer size.

Wilson Fisk—better known on the streets as Kingpin—sat unmoving in his custom-built chair, his thick fingers steepled before his face, repeating the same phrase quietly under his breath.

"Jon Harmon… Bloodhead Gang…"

He didn't look up as a mechanical hum filled the room, signaling the approach of a figure in a levitating wheelchair. The man who rolled beside him wore a tailored lab coat over a reinforced exosuit—Alistair Smythe, head of the Spider-Slayer program.

"The investigation into Jon Harmon's death has been active for weeks," Alistair said, his voice crisp but cautious. "And yet we've found no solid evidence pointing to the cause of death. No trace of toxins. No security footage. It was surgical."

He paused, waiting for a reaction that didn't come.

"According to our inside sources in Silvermane's crew, they didn't make any move against the Bloodhead Gang during that period. In fact, they were caught off guard and even suspected we might've been the ones who orchestrated the hit."

Alistair adjusted a panel on his armrest, displaying a holographic map of gang territories. "Only after verifying Jon Harmon's death did they move into Bloodhead turf. If they'd been responsible, they would've made their move immediately—maximizing profit and chaos."

Finally, Fisk turned his gaze toward him, his eyes burning with suppressed fury.

"Alistair…" he said, his voice low and controlled, "…is this your report?"

He rose from his chair—slowly, ominously—and loomed over Alistair. "Our enemy has severed one of our limbs, and we don't even know who the blade belongs to. Do you expect me to believe Silvermane had nothing to gain? Do you expect me to stand by while my enemies mock me behind closed doors?"

The tension in the room thickened.

Alistair met his glare, his tone respectful but firm. "I'm sorry, Mr. Fisk. I've been occupied developing the next generation of Spider-Slayers. We've received intel that Spider-Man's tech has been upgraded recently. I needed to rework our attack protocols."

Fisk's lips pressed into a tight line, but after a long pause, he gave a slow nod. "Then shift focus. Spider-Man is still a threat, but there's another player in the game now. Someone who moves in silence… and who took down Jon Harmon without leaving a trace."

Alistair narrowed his eyes. "You think it wasn't gang-related?"

Fisk turned toward the skyline, his broad shoulders blotting out the light.

"No. This wasn't about turf. This was a message."