After finishing breakfast, Old York took Ethan out in the delivery van to restock supplies for the pizzeria.
Despite his age, Old York was as talkative as ever. He leaned back in the passenger seat, rambling on about the wild days of his youth everything from how he almost got drafted during the Cold War, to run-ins with mutant street gangs in Hell's Kitchen during the '80s.
Ethan, who was focused on driving, wanted to remind him—for the sake of everyone's safety, maybe don't distract the driver—but decided against it. Knowing Old York's tendency to respond with a firm smack to the back of the head, he chose instead to embody the ancient virtue of respecting one's elders and kept his mouth shut.
The van rumbled smoothly through the streets of Brooklyn, heading toward their supplier's warehouse on the outskirts of the borough. Their casual conversation carried on, full of light banter, even as the number of vehicles around them began to thin suspiciously.
It wasn't until they passed a familiar intersection—usually buzzing with taxis and delivery bikes—that Ethan finally took notice. Why the hell are we the only car here?
Before the unease could settle fully into his mind, something else did a raspy, alien voice curled into his consciousness like a warning bell.
"Danger! Incoming brace for impact!"
Venom's voice.
Barely two seconds later, a semi-truck roared out from a blind side street, tires screeching. With impossible speed, it barreled toward them, slamming into the van's side like a battering ram.
The world spun violently.
The van flipped over twice, like a crushed soda can kicked into the air, before it crashed headlong through the glass storefront of a convenience store. Shattered panels rained down, shelves collapsed in slow-motion horror, and debris swallowed everything.
"BZZZZZZ"
A deafening, high-pitched ringing filled Ethan's ears. His body felt like it had been put through a car crusher. Pain screamed from every joint, and the steering column was now twisted and jammed against his ribs. Blood bubbled from his mouth with every shallow, gasping breath.
"Cough! Cough!"
Warm liquid streamed down his face, and when he blinked, he realized it was blood—thick and hot, seeping from a jagged cut above his brow. It flooded into his left eye, turning half the world crimson.
He tried lifting his arm to wipe it away—nothing. His right arm hung at a grotesque angle, bones visibly shattered beneath torn skin.
Sucking in what little air he could, Ethan forced his head to turn to the passenger seat desperate to see if Old York had made it.
The sight made his heart plummet.
A jagged wooden beam from the shattered storefront had pierced straight through Old York's chest, pinning him to the seat like a macabre scarecrow. Blood oozed from the wound in rhythmic pulses, soaking the puffy coat he always wore, and splashing in rivulets down onto the floorboard.
His arms were twisted unnaturally at the elbows, dangling loosely at his sides. Despite the injuries, Old York was still conscious. His eyes locked on Ethan's with quiet affection—and immense worry.
He tried to speak. His lips trembled. His mouth opened and closed, forming soundless syllables, but all that came out was a mess of blood and tissue.
Alive…
That's what Ethan read on his lips.
Then, the tremble stopped. His eyes unfocused. The light behind them went out.
Old York—who had nagged Ethan about folding pizza boxes correctly, who made terrible coffee but swore by it, who had been more of a father than anyone else ever was—was gone.
The realization hit Ethan like a second collision. His body screamed in agony, his head slumped forward, and all that escaped from his blood-filled throat was a weak, broken whimper.
Somewhere, deep within his body, the symbiote stirred.
Slowly, Ethan calmed down, his breathing shallow, his vision clouded with blood and trauma—but his eyes now held the eerie stillness of someone who had accepted death.
In truth, he'd always been a lonely soul—an outsider who had died in his own world long ago. This second chance in a parallel Earth, in a world teeming with Avengers and gods, had been nothing more than a brief miracle. For the first time in his lives, he'd known peace—even joy—working at Old York's pizzeria, laughing, living.
Now, with that life shattered into broken glass and twisted steel, Ethan found no compelling reason to go on. Maybe it was fate. Maybe this was how things were always meant to end. At least, this way, he could join Old York in death. They'd walk the path together, and perhaps find each other again on the other side.
Just as Ethan resigned himself to the encroaching darkness, the voice that had warned him before—the raspy, guttural one—surged back into his mind like a rising tide.
"You're giving up this easily? Pathetic. I can keep you alive. But you must accept me."
It sounded like a demon's bargain. And maybe it was. Ethan gave a tired, almost indifferent reply in his thoughts: "No. I'm done. I have no reason to keep living. Just let it end."
"I hope he waits for me," Ethan whispered mentally, "and doesn't walk too far ahead."
There was a moment of silence. A stillness so absolute it felt like time itself held its breath.
Then the voice returned calmer now, but with cold clarity that sliced through Ethan's haze.
"So you'll let them get away? You'll let the ones who did this walk free?"
Ethan's eyes shot open. Pain flared through every nerve, but he didn't care. His blood-caked vision narrowed.
"What… did you say? This wasn't an accident?" he roared silently within his mind, disbelief giving way to rising fury.
The voice let out a low, cruel laugh.
"Heh… of course not. You're not naive enough to think this was bad luck, are you? You noticed it yourself—how empty the streets were… how the truck driver didn't even hesitate… how he ran without even checking if you were alive. This was planned."
Ethan's breath caught. The blood in his eye socket spilled down his cheek like a crimson tear.
And then something inside him shifted—slowly, violently. Anguish turned to rage. His battered face twisted, hatred pouring from every pore.
"WHO? WHO DID THIS? I'LL KILL THEM! I'LL MAKE THEM SUFFER!" he screamed inside his mind, coughing blood with every word, but refusing to fall silent.
The voice answered without hesitation.
"Accept me. Accept my power. Fuse with me and I will help you tear those responsible limb from limb. I will make their bones sing with fear. Together, we will be unstoppable. Vengeance will be your gospel."
The words slithered through his soul like temptation given form, feeding on his grief, his fury, his need for justice or revenge.
Ethan didn't even hesitate.
"Give me your strength! I don't care if you're a demon or worse. Just give me the power to make them bleed!" he bellowed, the pain from his wounds lost beneath the fire burning in his veins.
The hoarse voice responded, darker now but almost… pleased.
"Then we are agreed. Your anger is mine. Your vengeance, our bond. Let us become one!"
Suddenly, Ethan felt something deep within him ignite. His organs tingled. His heart pounded violently so loud it drowned out the beeping of machines. A warm, alien current surged through him, flooding broken limbs, reigniting dead nerves. Vitality returned like lightning ripping through a corpse.
Then… blackness.
The last thing he remembered was the rush of power. Then exhaustion took hold, dragging him into unconsciousness like a tide.
When Ethan opened his eyes again, fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. He was lying on a hospital bed, hooked up to IVs, a heart monitor beeping steadily beside him. His chest ached, but the pain was muted almost as if something inside him was numbing it.
Through the glass pane in the door, he saw a nurse gasp and scurry off.
Moments later, a middle-aged man in a white coat—clearly the attending physician—entered the room. He had a calm, professional demeanor, his clipboard in hand. Following behind him were two uniformed NYPD officers, their expressions solemn.
The doctor gently began his examination. "Can you feel any pressure here? Any numbness in your arms? Stay calm—you've been through serious trauma."
Ethan nodded faintly, still groggy, still absorbing the fact that he was… alive.
After a few minutes, once the doctor seemed satisfied with his condition, one of the officers stepped forward.
He exhaled, a heavy sigh of regret hanging in the air.
"Kid… I'm sorry. By the time we arrived at the scene, your grandfather Mr. Bain York had already passed. There were no signs of life."