After the officer spoke, Ethan remained seated on the hospital bed in silence, his gaze hollow, unfocused. The weight of the news seemed to press down on his entire body. He didn't blink. He didn't breathe deeply. He merely stared into space, as if watching memories slip through the cracks of reality.
Seeing Ethan's motionless reaction, the lead officer cleared his throat awkwardly and continued, "According to our preliminary investigation, this was no random accident. The truck driver responsible ran a red light and fled the scene without hesitation. We've put out an APB and are tracking him through satellite and street-level surveillance feeds, including those maintained by Stark Industries' auxiliary city monitoring network."
"If we find him—which we will—you'll be the first to know. He won't walk away from this. He'll be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law."
With that, silence wrapped the room once more. The kind of silence that a machine couldn't monitor, the kind that choked everything human and mechanical alike.
Just as the officer opened his mouth again to say something else—perhaps out of habit more than necessity—Ethan finally spoke.
"I understand. Can I ask you all to step out? I need to rest."
His voice was startlingly calm, too calm. It was the kind of stillness found in the eye of a storm—dead but deceptive.
The officers exchanged glances, uncertain how to interpret his tone. The doctor accompanying them, a middle-aged man in a white coat with a S.H.I.E.L.D. medical insignia sewn on the pocket, gave a short nod. "Let's give him space," he said gently, leading the group out.
When the door closed behind them, the sterile quiet of the hospital room returned. Ethan slumped back into the bed. His eyes locked onto the ceiling tiles as if they held answers the universe refused to give.
Seconds passed. Then minutes.
Tears formed slowly in his blood-stained eyes, gathering like raindrops against glass. One escaped. Then another. They flowed freely now, soaking his temple and pillow. His breath hitched. His shoulders trembled.
A sob broke through. Then another. Each one more fragile, more desperate, than the last.
He bit his lower lip, trying to stifle the noise, but the dam had broken. He turned to his side, pulled the covers over his head, and cried—loud, mournful cries that echoed against the walls like broken violin strings.
Outside the door, the lead officer paused mid-conversation. His eyes softened. A quiet sigh escaped him. None of them had the heart to interrupt. Who could remain composed after witnessing something like this?
Eventually, exhaustion overtook Ethan. His sobbing gave way to sleep, and in the darkness of his dreams, he wandered between despair and nothingness.
But his rest was short-lived.
He awoke in the middle of the night with a choking sound, a sob caught between wakefulness and memory. And then—
"Crying is useless. Your enemies will not perish because of your tears."
The voice didn't come from his mind this time. It came from the space beside him—gravelly, rasping, far too real.
A thick, ink-like liquid oozed from his back. It crept across the bed, slithered up beside him, and took form. Eyes like slits of pale moonlight opened on its face, and a jagged, red-stained mouth full of fangs curled into a snarl.
The creature's head hovered inches from Ethan's face.
Venom.
Ethan flinched at first—but only slightly. There was no scream, no panic. Just a resigned sigh.
"A literal devil's deal," he muttered hoarsely. "Do I owe you my soul now?"
The snarling face blinked, then raised an eyebrow. If monsters could look exasperated, this one just did.
"Devil? Really? Kid, I'm a symbiote. Name's Venom. Not some ancient demon—though, honestly, we do better work."
"I don't want your soul. I want to live. Through you."
Ethan frowned. "Symbiote?" he echoed, confused.
Venom tilted his head. "Where do I begin?" he said, the gravel in his voice laced with mischief. "You know what? Words are a waste. Just access my memories directly. It'll be quicker."
"Access your memories?" Ethan repeated skeptically.
"You're not a regular host," Venom explained. "Your mental structure—strong, resilient, oddly compatible. You can handle it."
"Close your eyes. Focus on your spirit—on your mind. You'll feel it. Like a bubble. Pop it. That's my memory."
Still reeling from trauma and barely processing what was real anymore, Ethan nonetheless followed the instructions. He closed his eyes. Reached inward.
Suddenly, it was as though he'd plunged into the ocean. Endless, dark, but not terrifying. His spirit was submerged in a sea of mental clarity. He didn't drown. He floated.
And then he saw it.
The bubble.
Just as Venom had described—translucent, shimmering, hovering in his subconscious.
He reached out.
Touched it.
"Boom—"
The world changed.
With his gentle touch, the large, shimmering bubble burst with a soft, almost inaudible pop.
At that moment, a flood of alien memories surged into Ethan's mind—vivid, raw, and utterly otherworldly.
It was a surreal experience. Ethan wasn't just observing; he was inside Venom's memories, experiencing them firsthand as though he had become the symbiote itself, perceiving time and sensation through its perspective.
(For clarity, the pronoun "it" will refer to Venom.)
In the beginning, Venom's consciousness was murky—a fog of instincts and primal hunger, driven by the Klyntar symbiote race's biological need to bond. It lacked individuality, surviving through collective instinct within the living hive of symbiotes from their homeworld.
Its first true awareness—the emergence of self—came when it bonded with a human mercenary for the first time.
That mercenary was codenamed Deadpool.
Wade Wilson, a former special forces operative turned unpredictable gun-for-hire, was a marvel of human resilience. His regenerative healing factor and combat prowess made him a perfect host physically.
But mentally?
An unmitigated disaster.
Even within the memory stream, Ethan could feel it—the maelstrom of madness in Wade's mind. Thoughts that spiraled endlessly. Jokes that never landed. Conversations with voices that weren't there. A mind splintered into chaotic, surreal fragments.
Venom, unaccustomed to such disorder, was overwhelmed. It tried to stabilize the bond but couldn't endure Wade's kaleidoscopic insanity. The connection was severed within hours. But even that brief period had consequences.
Though it escaped the host, Venom had already been infected—tainted by a whisper of Wade's madness. The chaos lingered like a virus, subtly influencing its behavior, just as symbiotes are shaped by the psyche of every host they bond with.
After abandoning Deadpool, Venom drifted, searching for balance. It passed through multiple human hosts, most of whom lacked the durability to survive full symbiosis. The toll on their bodies was immense. Internal bleeding, neural overload, cardiac arrest—common outcomes for the unworthy.
Eventually, Venom found another promising host—one that would alter its fate forever.
Peter Parker.
Yes, that Peter Parker. The quiet, awkward high schooler Ethan vaguely recognized. He'd never looked twice at him before. But in this memory—seen from Venom's perspective—Peter was revealed not as an ordinary teen, but as Spider-Man.
The moment they bonded, Venom experienced elation. Peter's enhanced physiology—radiation-hardened cells, reflexes faster than lightning, spider-strength—was a perfect match. Together, they moved in harmony, their union seamless.
For a time, they were unstoppable.
Peter moved with supernatural grace. His strength doubled. His agility sharpened. He no longer needed his traditional red-and-blue suit. The symbiote shaped itself around him, forming the now-infamous black Spider-Man suit, which responded to his thoughts and concealed him in shadow.
But symbiosis came at a cost.
Venom's abilities didn't merely amplify Peter's powers. They also fed on his subconscious. His guilt. His anger. His stress.
And Peter, despite his strength, was still only human.
During this time, life became more difficult for him. Aunt May was in and out of the hospital. His college workload was crushing. J. Jonah Jameson at the Daily Bugle ran relentless anti-Spider-Man headlines. And Mary Jane had grown distant.
Under such emotional strain, Peter's darker impulses began to surface. The symbiote thrived on these emotions, magnifying them until he grew colder. Harsher.
More violent.
Ethan, viewing all this through the lens of Venom's memory, watched in shock as Peter snapped at friends, hurt enemies more than necessary, and even considered retaliating against Jameson physically.
Peter Parker—the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man—was slipping.
Realizing he was no longer in control of himself, Peter investigated. Through conversations with allies like Reed Richards and personal reflection, he uncovered the truth: the suit wasn't merely enhancing him. It was corrupting him.
He had to let it go.
What followed was one of the most painful moments in Venom's memory—physically and emotionally. Peter dragged himself to the top of the bell tower at Trinity Church. There, beneath the thunderous ringing of church bells, he forced the symbiote from his body.
The high-frequency sonic vibrations weakened Venom, tearing at its molecular cohesion. The pain of separation was agonizing.
And yet… it remembered Peter.
The boy who, even in darkness, chose light.
It remembered rejection.
And from that pain, its hatred for Peter Parker was born.