They didn't say much on the way down. Just the metallic hum of the elevator descending, and that kind of silence that hangs in the air when someone knows an uncomfortable conversation is coming.
Once at the building's bar—low lighting, sparse crowd, the smell of old wood and expensive liquor—they settled into a table at the back. Anton ordered whiskey. Eddie followed suit without thinking.
That's when Anton laid it all out.
No sugarcoating, no pauses. He told him what he'd discussed with his grandfather, about picking up the investigation again, about the Life Foundation. The essentials. Enough for Eddie to know he wasn't alone in this.
Eddie listened without interrupting. But when Anton finished, he raised his glass and murmured, half serious, half with alcohol loosening his tongue:
"Thanks. Really."
Anton looked at him for a moment, then took a sip and frowned.
"You're welcome. Though I still don't get why burning your throat is part of the charm."
Eddie smiled, but Anton was already putting his glass down.
"There's something I want to make clear before you get so excited you start asking for a Pulitzer in advance."
He looked at him seriously, though his tone remained relaxed.
"The Life Foundation isn't a cartoon villain. It's a monster with lawyers. You can show bodies, experiments, testimonies... and at best, you get them fined once or twice. Maybe a column on the last page. As long as they own the patents, they'll have friends. Rich ones."
Eddie looked down. He didn't argue.
"I'm not trying to save the world," he said. "I just want to screw Carlton Drake. That's enough for me."
Anton looked at him sideways. Then nodded.
"Good. But you'll have to do it from here. No romantic trips to San Francisco."
"What?"
"You heard me. If you show up there, the Foundation will smell it. And if they smell you, they'll know we're moving pieces in the dark. You're not just a crazy journalist with a vendetta anymore. You're the guy with an office and the Bugle's stamp. Like it or not."
Eddie took a deep breath. Lowered his glass.
"So I have to just sit here... while others get their hands dirty."
"Exactly. Or you could learn to play chess instead of throwing punches like you're Rocky. Come on, Brock, you know it's the smart move. Build the team. Run the investigation from here. When it's time to strike, you won't miss it."
Eddie thought about it. Then nodded, calmer.
"Got it."
Anton stood and dropped several bills on the bar, not checking how much.
"Tomorrow I fly to L.A. Got another fire to start over there."
He turned after two steps, like he'd just remembered something.
"The Bugle's yours until I get back. Don't turn it into a food blog."
And he left. Just like that.
Eddie watched him go. Didn't stop him. No need. Both knew the conversation was over... and that the real mess was just beginning.
Anton, meanwhile, walked slowly down the street. Hands in his pockets. Eyes forward, but mind elsewhere.
Eddie Brock. San Francisco. Life Foundation. Fired.
The words lined up in his head like dominoes. And he'd seen that game before.
"Venom," he thought. A movie from his other world. A well-meaning disaster. Like a gourmet sandwich with moldy bread.
He pulled out his phone. Typed in Life Foundation. News popped up quickly.
"Rocket crash. Eastern Malaysia. Rescue underway."
Anton frowned.
"So... they're already here?"
The whiskey burned his throat a second time, without a single sip.
Symbiotes. Space parasites with a hunger for adrenaline and serious self-esteem issues. Perfect.
He closed his phone with a dry flick. Sometimes, knowing too much is like smelling gas: useful—until something sparks.
But no need to panic. Not yet.
Yes, the rocket crashed. Yes, the symbiotes were probably already being picked up by the Foundation. But Eddie wasn't in San Francisco. That was... new.
A butterfly flaps its wings, someone pukes in Malaysia, and fate changes the channel.
And yet...
"Nothing's going to happen," he muttered, more to convince himself than out of certainty.
This world was weird, yeah. A kind of improvised multiverse, like someone stirred together franchises with a dirty spoon. But there was one thing Anton was 100% sure of: Where Tony Stark goes, S.H.I.E.L.D. follows.
They'd seen aliens before. Since the '90s. Since her.
Ms. Marvel.
Or call her Captain Marvel.
Symbiotes might be slimy, dangerous, even annoying... but they weren't the end of the world.
And if some space goo tried turning Earth into a buffet, it wouldn't even make it to dessert. The Kree tried first—and left with their tails tucked.
No. Earth wasn't just a planet. It was a wildcard. A place with more twists than a cheap novel.
Anton smiled, tired.
"Nice try, universe."
By the time he climbed the stairs to his suite, he felt less worried... and more exhausted.
But deep down, he knew he wouldn't sleep well that night.
Because if the symbiotes were already here...
...then he'd be here soon, too.
And that, for once, wasn't in any movie.
The next morning, Anton flew to Los Angeles accompanied by Browning, the star screenwriter he'd hired the day before. An assistant drove them straight to an apartment near Hollywood. Spacious, modern, and conveniently close to the studio.
Jim Lambert arrived twenty minutes late but walked in like they'd been eagerly waiting for him.
"Anton, finally. The team's almost ready. Just need to cast the leads. Any preferences?"
"Yes," Anton said without hesitation. "Start working."
Jim blinked, awkward.
"I meant... do you want to pick them yourself?"
Anton shrugged.
"That's your job, isn't it? I just want the cameras rolling. As long as no one screws it up, I don't care who says the lines."
"The male lead is nearly locked. But I figured you'd want some say in the female lead. You know\... Hollywood."
"Tomorrow, then?"
"Yeah. I've got appointments with seven actresses. They all fit the profile."
"Great. Let me know. I want to meet them in person."
Jim tilted his head.
"Any criteria?"
"Yes. She has to have presence. Understand the role. And not talk about astrology between takes."
Jim didn't argue. He'd worked with picky types before. This wasn't new.
Later, Browning met with Jim to go over the script and promised the first draft in three days. Then he left.
Anton stayed to sort logistics.
"I need to meet the prop team," he said. "The materials they sent look like leftovers from a canceled '90s show."
Jim nodded.
"I'll have them prep new samples."
It was clear that, in this project, Anton had the final say. As investor and director, everyone knew it. Even Jim.
The days flew by in a frenzy. Anton worked nonstop, fine-tuning production, set design, and casting. Finally, things began to fall into place.
The day before filming, Jim handed him a budget sheet. Anton reviewed it with a frown.
"One hundred and ten million," he read.
Ten more than what he'd agreed on with Tony.
He pressed his lips together. Not ideal, but not a disaster. In his old world, Nolan spent that—if not more—on Batman Begins. And here, the tech was more advanced. Effects, sound, props... everything was next level. In that sense, the budget made sense.
He sighed and signed.
He mortgaged most of his assets.
And finally, shooting began.
Anton, focused and precise, stood behind the camera, surrounded by assistants. He knew this was his only shot. No room for mistakes.
Meanwhile, back in New York, Eddie began receiving the first reports from his undercover reporters in San Francisco.