Jon Harmon threw the file in his hand onto the table, the pages fanning out like a dying breath. He finished the last of the dark red wine in his glass in one swallow, ice cubes clinking gently as they settled. The only sound in the room was the rolling of those slowly melting cubes.
When nothing remained but the translucent ice, Jon Harmon—silent all this time—finally broke the stillness. His voice, hoarse and cold, crept through the room like smoke: "Holm, is the man my brother wanted dead… finally gone?"
"Not yet," Holm answered without hesitation. The words were calm, unhurried. The implication was clear: Not yet… but he can be.
Jon's fingers curled around the glass, gripping it tighter. "Then why is my brother dead?"
His tone was flat, but the tension beneath it was unmistakable. The image of Harvey Harmon, bloodied and unrecognizable, surged into his mind like a haunting. A pile of flesh. Torn apart.
"Why?" Jon's voice broke into a roar, and he hurled the glass against the table.
Crash!
The crystal shattered violently, shards cutting into his palm. Blood welled up, dripped down his hand, and soaked into the fine grain of the oak table. But Jon didn't flinch. He stared ahead, dead-eyed, the pain irrelevant—like the hand wasn't even his.
The men around him didn't dare move. The air turned stiff. Even Holm, usually stoic as stone, lowered his head like a servant in front of a king's wrath.
Jon couldn't accept it—not the brutality, not the timing, not the silence around it. Harvey Harmon, his brother, was gone. Slaughtered in his own home. No signs of forced entry, no prints. Just blood. Too much blood.
They'd grown up in hell. Their mother, a street-worn prostitute, was strangled by a client who didn't want to pay for the night. Jon remembered her face turning blue, remembered Harvey holding their mother's limp body for hours. They were barely five and six.
After her death, they'd been thrown into a hellish orphanage in Hell's Kitchen. When the other kids found out what their mother did, the torment was endless. Words like "whoreblood" were carved into walls. The staff turned a blind eye. But Harvey? Harvey never let them touch Jon. He fought, even when it meant days in solitary. Jon, too frightened to risk losing shelter or food, simply endured.
When they aged out of the system, it was Jon—sharp, ruthless, calculating—who dragged them into street life. He didn't trust anyone. Couldn't afford to. The gangs were New York's real families, and Jon made sure they became part of one.
While Harvey stuck to fists and loyalty, Jon used his mind. While other dealers flashed guns and talked big, Jon studied routes, cops, and logistics. It was why the Harmon name had weight in every borough, from Harlem to the docks. It was why Oscorp looked the other way when their chemicals turned up in gang-funded meth labs. The Harmon brothers ran the East Side with brutal efficiency.
But Jon never gave Harvey real power. He knew his brother didn't want it. Harvey liked action, not planning. So Jon gave him muscle work. Bodyguard gigs. Easy hits. He made sure Harvey lived well and without pressure. Harvey got the cars. The girls. The clubs. Jon handled the monsters behind the curtain.
And now the only person Jon had ever cared about was dead. Torn apart in his own home, and the one man Harvey was hunting—the boy named Ethan—was still breathing.
Jon's jaw clenched. His brother had gone after Ethan, the one tied to the rumors. Oscorp projects. Symbiotes. Black ooze and mutations. And somehow, it was Harvey who ended up butchered. The story made no sense.
He didn't care who Ethan was—student, superhuman, or something worse. Someone had to answer.
He would burn Manhattan if that's what it took.
No one kills a Harmon and walks free.
Shaking away the glass particles and the blood from his hand, Jon Harmon grabbed a towel from the tray beside him and slowly wiped his palm clean. His face was calm, but his eyes burned like a furnace barely contained. He turned toward Holm and ordered in a low voice, "Go. Bring that guy to me. I want to know who he is, what happened between him and Harvey—and then I'm going to kill him with my own hands."
His tone was cold enough to make the air freeze. Holm didn't flinch.
"By the way," Jon added, tossing the blood-stained towel aside. "How are Harvey's bodyguards holding up?"
Holm's voice remained composed. "One of them didn't make it through the night. The other five are still breathing… barely. I'd be surprised if they last another twenty-four hours."
Harvey Harmon's death had been brutal—savage beyond reason. The bodyguards he paid to protect him had failed miserably. Jon Harmon, now head of the Eastside Syndicate—a criminal enterprise with roots as deep as the Kingpin's old network—had no tolerance for failure. Especially not when it cost him his only brother.
Those bodyguards had spent the last three days in the basement beneath Harmon Tower, tied to iron racks and subjected to unspeakable punishment. Jon hadn't even bothered to extract information—they had no answers. They were being made into examples.
Jon leaned back into the plush leather of his sofa, lit by the soft glow of the chandelier overhead. "Feed them to the dogs," he said flatly. "It's been three days. My Rottweilers are hungry."
He waved his hand, signaling Holm to carry out the sentence. Without hesitation, Holm turned and walked toward the main corridor.
Then—Bang! Bang! Bang!—three sharp gunshots rang out behind him. Jon had fired into the ceiling, not out of aim, but pure fury.
Holm didn't flinch. He'd seen this before. He kept walking.
He had worked for Jon Harmon for nearly fifteen years—through turf wars with Hammerhead's crew, covert deals with rogue HYDRA elements, and even a close call with Elektra Natchios when they crossed into The Hand's territory in Hell's Kitchen. Holm knew Jon's temper wasn't just dangerous—it was apocalyptic.
Now Holm descended into the basement—a reinforced dungeon designed more for torture than storage. He waved his hand, and two enforcers opened the iron door. The smell hit instantly: sweat, blood, rotting flesh.
Inside, Harvey's surviving bodyguards hung from chains bolted into the concrete walls. Their bodies were bloated, bruised, and lacerated. One twitched. The others barely reacted. Torture had become routine. Hope had long since died.
Holm pulled a black handkerchief from his suit pocket and covered his mouth and nose. "Drag them out," he said coldly. "Dead or alive. The dogs don't care either way."
Two guards moved in, dragging the broken men across the blood-slicked floor. The basement echoed with chains, gurgles, and the groan of rusted hinges.
Holm turned and left without a second glance.
Brooklyn – Ethan's Apartment
Ethan, who had slept for nearly forty-eight hours straight, now sat like a king among wrappers, cartons, and soda bottles. He clutched a hamburger in one hand and a slice of pizza in the other, chomping between sips of Coke from the 2-liter bottle on the table. The caffeine buzz hit just right.
Next to him, Venom coiled and uncoiled lazily across the armrest, nibbling at a row of chocolate bars with a strangely meticulous sense of taste. "Snickers… tolerable. KitKat? Fragile structure. Toblerone—sharp, but interesting."
They were indulging. And after what they'd just endured—the bloody brawl with Harvey Harmon, the rapid mutation in Ethan's body, the strange flash of memories that weren't his—they needed this.
The past two days had been a blur. Venom had taken full control during the worst of the fight. When Ethan regained consciousness, Harvey was a shredded mess on the floor, and Ethan didn't even remember throwing the final blow.
His body had been healing at unnatural speed, but the toll was immense. Muscles ached. Joints throbbed. He felt like a phone battery trying to charge from a candle.
"Ugh," Ethan groaned, draining the last of his Coke and setting the bottle down with a loud clink. He stretched out and touched his stomach, now bloated from food and sleep. "Finally full. I swear my cells were about to eat me."
Venom retreated slightly into his back and reformed into a semi-humanoid shape. He slithered toward the kitchen, returning with a hot cup of green tea. "Hydration," he hissed.
"You're learning," Ethan said with a smirk. "What's next? Spa day?"
"We adapt," Venom said simply. "We must."
They sat quietly, sipping tea, watching the ceiling fan spin. For the first time in days, Ethan wasn't on edge. No sirens, no gunfire, no screams in the night.
Then—Skrrrt!
The sound of tires braking hard.
Ethan's eyes snapped toward the window. He placed the cup down and stood slowly. Venom's form slid back into his skin, merging with him.
Several matte-black SUVs pulled up outside his building. The doors opened simultaneously—four to each car. Suited men stepped out, each one armed and wearing comms.
Jon Harmon's men.
Venom's voice echoed inside Ethan's head.
"They're here."