Marvel:Host of Venom

In New York City, deep within the underground laboratory of Wilson Fisk's corporate tower, the air was filled with quiet dread. Inside the life-support chamber, Tombstone lay motionless, his massive frame barely recognizable beneath the brutal web of medical stitching.

Fisk stood with a grim expression, his towering figure casting a long shadow across the transparent chamber.

The wounds etched into Tombstone's flesh looked like they had been clawed open by wild animals. The jagged stitching across his body resembled crawling centipedes. Especially around his abdomen—where the damage was most severe—the sutures were so dense they looked like a nest of writhing millipedes embedded in flesh.

"Is there anything left to salvage?" Fisk asked coldly, not looking at Alistair Smythe, who stood nearby adjusting the life support monitor's data stream.

Smythe, dressed in his usual sterile lab coat, gave a tired nod, then sighed and shook his head. "He's alive… barely. But this is as far as we can go. His internal organs were nearly obliterated. If his physiology wasn't so enhanced to begin with, he wouldn't have made it this far."

Fisk's jaw tightened. The mahogany cane in his right hand creaked under the increasing pressure from his grip.

Crack! The cane gave way, splintering in his palm. He didn't flinch—his face remained hard as stone—but the message was clear: his fury simmered just beneath the surface.

His anger wasn't because Tombstone—Lonnie Lincoln—was on the verge of death. No, Fisk's rage came from the loss—the carefully laid plans unraveled, the mercenaries slaughtered, and the reminder that a new, unpredictable threat had entered his domain.

"You said he's stable?" Fisk's voice was low, calm… too calm.

"For now," Alistair said. "With enough time and therapy, he might still serve some use. He's still regenerating, albeit slowly."

There was a long silence.

Alistair hesitated, then added, "Also… the Rhino's corpse. NYPD recovered it and brought it back to their precinct morgue. But with your authorization, we could retrieve it for analysis."

He glanced up at Fisk, trying to gauge the mood. "I believe there's still something of value there. The biological alterations to Aleksei's body were extensive—there may be applications for the Kingpin Initiative. But… I can't guarantee anything."

For a long moment, Fisk said nothing. Then, slowly, he exhaled, his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly.

"I trust your instincts, Smythe," he said. "Retrieve the body. Quietly. If there's even a sliver of potential left in that oaf's remains, I want it uncovered."

Alistair gave a silent nod and began making arrangements on his handheld console.

Fisk turned his back on the lab, straightened his custom-tailored tie, and strode to the exit. His thoughts churned, but his expression was blank, controlled.

Venom…

He hadn't anticipated such overwhelming devastation. Not only had his mercenary squad—armed with cutting-edge weaponry—been annihilated, but both Tombstone and Rhino had been rendered helpless. Rhino killed, Tombstone left in a state of living death.

He had underestimated the symbiote's host. The intelligence. The aggression. The calculated brutality.

It wasn't just an alien parasite anymore. It had bonded with a man who fought like a predator and thought like a tactician. Ethan—whoever he truly was—had proved to be far more than a chaotic nuisance.

Fisk hated admitting mistakes. But this one would cost him if not handled with care.

For now, patience was necessary. Retaliation would come later—after preparation, after recalibration.

By the time Wilson Fisk stepped out the front gate of Fisk Industries, his entire demeanor had changed. The stone-faced king of the underworld had transformed into a smiling, warm-hearted philanthropist.

His smile was wide and practiced. His handshake firm. A camera-ready grin.

Today's event was part of a carefully crafted public image: the groundbreaking ceremony at Empire State University. The new science building, "The Fisk Center for Technological Advancement," was funded entirely by his foundation.

Dozens of reporters lined up outside, flashing bulbs and microphones extended, all part of the show. They'd been invited specifically to cover this.

Fisk offered charming answers to pre-approved questions, made polite comments about education and community, and posed for photos with construction executives and city officials.

Beneath the polished exterior, the storm still brewed. But the world wouldn't see the man seething inside.

All they saw was Wilson Fisk, New York's beloved benefactor.

The man with blood on his hands… hidden beneath silk gloves.

In the bright, sunlit lecture hall of Empire State University, Ethan sat by the window, attentively taking notes as Dr. Curtis Connors lectured at the front of the classroom. The chalk squeaked faintly against the board as Connors, his rolled-up sleeve revealing a prosthetic arm, elaborated on his latest research into genetic recoding and interspecies DNA integration.

This was a subject that fascinated Ethan deeply. After bonding with the symbiote, he'd become acutely aware of how genetics could unlock monstrous power—and how unstable such transformations could be. The subject matter wasn't just cutting-edge—it was personal.

Dr. Connors' passion was evident, as he spoke about the regenerative properties of reptilian DNA and their theoretical applications to human healing and mutation. Ethan scribbled down every word, his eyes locked on the diagrams on the screen behind Connors.

Suddenly, his enhanced hearing picked up something outside—cheering. Loud, rhythmic applause, punctuated by camera shutters and celebratory music. His ears twitched almost instinctively, and his head turned toward the window without conscious thought.

As Ethan gazed outside toward the university plaza, a voice beside him snapped his focus.

Debra Whitman, his seatmate and lab partner, gave a knowing glance. "You're missing the action out there," she teased gently, pushing her glasses up her nose. "They're holding a groundbreaking ceremony for the new biotech building. Some billionaire donors just threw a mountain of cash at the university."

Despite her simple attire—white sweater, modest skirt, and thick frames—Debra had a brightness to her. Her curiosity and wit shone through, even if she didn't dress like the social butterflies on campus.

She leaned closer, whispering, "Rumor is the Osborn family is behind it. You know—Henry Osborn's dad? The rich kid from bioengineering?"

Ethan raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Henry Osborn was a name he'd heard often but hadn't interacted with much. Still, his family's reputation preceded them.

Debra grinned mischievously. "Now focus. Dr. Connors is about to hit the real meat of the lecture. If you get distracted and I end up as his new assistant, don't say I didn't warn you."

Ethan turned away from the window and offered a confident smile. "Then I guess I'll just have to stay two steps ahead of you."

Debra smirked, adjusting her notes. "You might be top of the class, but I've logged more hours in Connors' lab. Don't get cocky, Mr. Mystery."

Their banter ended as Connors delved into CRISPR-Cas9 and retroviral genome editing. The noise outside grew louder, so Ethan reached over and closed the double-glazed window, effectively dampening the distractions. The insulated glass cut the ruckus by more than half, allowing him to refocus entirely.

Meanwhile, outside in the plaza adjacent to the university's main courtyard, a large crowd had gathered. Students, journalists, photographers, and university staff filled the square, watching the groundbreaking ceremony unfold beneath a white canopy and red carpet.

At the forefront stood the university president flanked by high-profile benefactors, each ready to give their remarks.

Two figures in particular drew the most attention:

One was Norman Osborn—lean, sharply dressed in an emerald tie and dark blazer. His facial features were aristocratic, almost regal, and he radiated corporate control. As the chairman of Oscorp, he was known for his aggressive technological expansion and frequent philanthropy, especially in the field of science. Many students recognized him as the father of their classmate, Henry Osborn.

The other was even more striking—Wilson Fisk, towering and broad-shouldered, in a pristine white suit with a violet handkerchief. His sheer size dwarfed those around him. A shaved head and inscrutable smile gave him the look of a chess master disguised as a politician. Publicly, he was known as a magnanimous philanthropist, funding hospitals, education, and community outreach. But few knew what lurked behind his smile: the criminal mastermind known as Kingpin.

Unlike Osborn's polished public persona rooted in tech innovation, Fisk's empire was diversified and opaque. His financial web spanned countless subsidiaries, many of them shadowy. And yet, to the crowd here today, he was just another generous benefactor.

Back in the crowd near the press section, J. Jonah Jameson, the brash editor-in-chief of the Daily Bugle, sat scowling behind his large mustache and signature cigar, glaring over the rims of his glasses at the empty space beside him.

His voice, low but irritated, barked toward the man next to him—a well-dressed Black photographer, Robbie Robertson, the Bugle's city editor.

"Where the hell is Parker?" Jameson grumbled. "He knows today's front page is riding on this damn photo op. I'm not paying that lazy kid to nap in broom closets!"

Robbie gave a small chuckle, flipping through his camera setup. "Relax, Jonah. Parker's probably dodging traffic. You know how that kid is—always cutting it close."

Jameson snorted. "One day he's gonna run late and miss the shot of the century."

As Norman Osborn stepped up to the podium to begin his speech, the crowd settled into silence, the buzz of excitement gradually giving way to polite applause.

But Ethan, back in the classroom, remained laser-focused on Dr. Connors, absorbing every word.

He had no idea that both Wilson Fisk and Norman Osborn—two of the most dangerous men in New York—were just meters away, smiling in the sunlight, plotting far darker things than ribbon-cutting ceremonies.