Ethan walked through Midtown High's crowded halls, the hum of everyday life a stark contrast to the twisted horror of the Mirror Realm he had recently escaped. Students bustled past lockers, chatting about weekend parties and homework—blissfully oblivious to the shadowy truths Ethan now lived with daily.
"Ethan!" Paige called, jogging toward him through the throng of students. She smiled warmly, her bright eyes carrying genuine relief. "Thought you'd decided to ghost me permanently."
"Not yet," he replied with a gentle smile. "Had some family stuff to sort through. You know how parents can be, especially when you disappear for a few days. I'm sure yours were probably the same."
Paige nodded sympathetically. "Oh, believe me, Ah do know. I'm staying with my uncle, and I didn't hear the end of it. Just glad you're back. It hasn't been the same around here without you."
Her voice dipped slightly, concern clear in her eyes. "Amy still hasn't shown up. She won't even text back half the time. I'm startin' to get real worried."
Ethan tilted his head thoughtfully. "Has Rachel been back yet?"
Paige's expression sobered further. "Barely. And when she does come, she looks like she ain't slept in days. Whatever happened there…" Paige hesitated, then gave a small shiver. "It changed all of us, but some got it worse than others."
Ethan nodded, carefully measuring his response. "We could swing by Amy's this weekend if she still doesn't show up. Might help her get back on track if she sees some familiar faces."
Paige's smile brightened immediately. "Ah was gonna suggest the same thing. You're a good friend, Ethan."
"Just doing my part," Ethan replied smoothly, giving nothing away.
From across the hallway, he caught sight of Rachel—eyes sunken, shoulders tight, moving as if bracing against invisible blows. He watched her carefully as Paige chattered beside him, noting every subtle twitch, every quick glance into the empty spaces around her.
Trauma, Ethan thought clinically, already categorizing it. 'Potential instability. Useful? I doubt it as experience tells me it's more harmful than good.'
Then the bell rang, snapping the world back into focus.
"Catch you later, Ethan," Paige said, turning down another hall. "Don't go vanishing on me again ya hear."
"I'll try not to, promise," Ethan murmured quietly to himself, watching her disappear into the crowd.
After school, Ethan returned to the hotel room. The room's dim glow contrasted sharply with the vibrant buzz of Midtown High. Ethan sat at his laptop, monitoring the secure channels that updated him on his safehouse in Newark. Blueprints, contracts, and schedules flickered across his screen, each piece methodically checked, re-checked, and triple-checked for any problem.
A sudden alert flashed red.
Minor intrusion attempt detected: Alias Samuel Rourke.
Ethan's fingers flew across the keyboard, launching a swift countermeasure. The breach—sloppy and obvious—was quickly identified as a basic police probe into local real estate transactions. Ethan smirked slightly, effortlessly sealing the breach and marking the entry point for future monitoring.
"Too predictable," he muttered, pulling up another encrypted tab.
On it was a detailed dossier labeled: "Felicia Hardy: Asset Package."
He began meticulously assembling her payment—a completely fabricated identity, complete with an extensive digital trail. Bank accounts, a modest yet plausible home in Connecticut, and maybe he would even throw in a fully equipped safehouse hidden deep in somewhere like Queens.
"Should be sufficient incentive to hear me out," he said quietly, tapping the screen thoughtfully. "Now it's your move, Felicia."
Elsewhere at home, Amy gasped awake, heart hammering, sweat coating her forehead. She floated gently several inches above her bed, the faint glow from her skin illuminating the darkness of her room like the soft gleam of distant stars. Her breaths came short and rapid, and the strange sensation of weightlessness brought equal parts terror and exhilaration.
Slowly, she willed herself back down, gently settling onto the mattress. The ethereal glow slowly faded, leaving her shivering and confused in the familiar darkness of her room.
She clutched her phone, fingers trembling as she typed a quick message.
Amy: Ethan… it happened again. I floated this time. I'm glowing. I'm scared and worried. I don't know if I'll hurt someone in my sleep.
She stared anxiously at the screen, eyes watering as minutes ticked by, her heart racing with every silent second. Then, a comforting buzz.
Ethan: Breathe, Amy. You're okay. We'll figure this out together. Tell me everything that happened no matter how small.
Amy exhaled a shaky breath, relief washing through her. She quickly replied:
Amy: I had a dream. It was about stars everywhere, a sky that goes on forever. But something else this time—something dark. A shadowy figure wearing a red hood. It feels like a warning.
The dots blinked as Ethan typed his response.
Ethan: You're gonna be okay Amy. We'll get through this together. Keep a journal of everything you experience. We'll talk tomorrow. I'll visit you after school.
Amy closed her eyes, hugging her phone to her chest, comforted by Ethan's calm assurance. Her fears slowly eased into something more manageable—curiosity.
Night draped heavily over the San Francisco streets, a misty chill dampening the glow of streetlamps. Felicia perched quietly atop a fire-escape, dressed in sleek black, her platinum hair tightly bound beneath her hood. Below, Eddie Brock—hulking even in civilian clothes—paced restlessly, his movements tense, eyes darting, constantly vigilant.
She let the city's hush settle around her, and for a heartbeat the evening slipped away, drawing her inward—
Wind tangles through my hair—clean, bracing, real—yet all I can taste is salt-water on my tongue, memory lapping at me like waves against a hull.
I see that drowning girl in, white spandex, plummeting from a freighter's mast into black water and waking in restraints that reeked of antiseptic. A cage.
Owl's bullets, Ock's steel arms. ICU lights. Nine lives cost interest.
Kingpin's "gift," Strange's scalpel spell, the night Foreigner's thugs broke my nose and Sabretooth stalked the scent of blood—
Apartment fire, exile over Paris rooftops, Shriek's sonic knives, orange-jumpsuit rainwater on a tenement roof. And Arcade's neon grin that still flickers behind my eyelids.
Nine lives, perhaps—but every scar is interest paid, and I've learned to choose who profits.
Felicia's focus slid back to the present. She watched Brock closely, noting each subtle shift, each vulnerable moment. Her heartbeat stayed calm despite the danger of the target she hunted.
Trouble found them first. Two masked robbers burst from a side alley, fleeing a shrieking alarm. Eddie stiffened, darkness spilling from his skin like ink. Felicia leaned forward, eyes narrowing. The symbiote surged forth, weaving over Brock's frame until Venom towered, jaws gaping.
She moved swiftly, silently, to a darker rooftop edge, balanced between shadow and spill of street-light, cataloguing every tell—how the monster recoiled from the lick of a dumpster fire, how Brock's grip frayed during the frenzy.
"Careful," she whispered, slipping gloved fingers into her pocket to brush the RFID card Ethan had supplied—proof that the boy genius really could build identities from smoke and code. 'Clever,' she mused, 'maybe too clever.' The offer of safety tugged at her, but memory's sting kept the lure at arm's length.
Venom dispatched the thieves with brutal efficiency, the symbiote's roar echoing off brick until it finally seeped back beneath Eddie's skin, leaving him shuddering and alone.
Felicia melted into the mist, rooftops flowing beneath her boots.
"It might just work," she breathed, the city's chill threading through her voice. "But if this goes sideways, Ethan… you'll have more than just me hunting you down."