Eddie Brock and Venom ●

It had been another restless night — Eddie could feel the familiar hunger gnawing at the edge of his ribs like static. Venom had been whining in the back of his head for the past hour, a constant mix of growls and complaints that no amount of caffeine could silence. Eventually, Eddie gave up, shoving on his jacket and muttering something about “chickens only, nothing with a pulse that speaks.”

The symbiote purred at that, half-amused, half-annoyed. Chickens were disgusting. But they’d survive.

They moved through the rooftops easily, a fluid shadow in the glow of the city. That’s when they saw her — the girl by the window, lights dim, shoulders shaking. Eddie felt the ache before Venom even spoke.

Venom: “She is crying.”

Eddie: “Yeah, I noticed. And we’re not— we’re not doing anything about it. We’re just getting food, alright?”

Venom: “Why not talk to her? She is... sad. We like her.”

Eddie: gritting his teeth. “We don’t even know her, man. You can’t just—”

But the body was already moving. The symbiote leaned forward, muscles coiling, the sound of Eddie’s protest swallowed by a low, dark hum that wasn’t quite his voice anymore.

Venom: softly “Hello, little one. Why do you cry?”

Eddie swore under his breath as the reflection in the glass changed — black veins rippling beneath his skin, a grin forming where no grin should be.