"Whoa!!"
The massive hand—Susanoo—moved.
Not fast in the conventional sense, but inevitable. It shifted with a crushing, inescapable presence, forcing Bullseye into immediate retreat. The assassin's instincts screamed danger, and for once, there was no room for arrogance.
He ran.
For a man who could land a kill shot with anything from a toothpick to a playing card, this was unfamiliar territory. Inside the cluttered factory, his usual mobility meant nothing. There was no clean angle, no advantage to exploit—just narrowing space and something monstrous closing in.
In seconds, his situation turned desperate.
"If I had a choice…" Bullseye muttered through clenched teeth as he vaulted over debris, barely dodging the sweeping motion of that grotesque hand. "I'd rather be fighting that blind idiot Daredevil…"
His voice dropped, almost bitter. "Not this freak."
He was human. Exceptionally trained, lethal beyond reason—but still human. Nothing in his experience prepared him for this. The pressure alone made his thoughts stutter, his usual cold precision replaced by something raw and ugly.
Fear.
For the first time, he understood what it felt like to be prey.
Like the countless civilians he had hunted down, cornered, and toyed with. Like a rat in a lab, watched and manipulated for someone else's amusement.
The realization made something inside him snap.
Anger surged up, burning through the fear.
"I'll kill you!" he roared, pivoting sharply as his gaze locked onto Locke.
The giant hand was terrifying, yes—but the man controlling it? That was a target. And targets could be killed.
Bullseye abandoned retreat entirely and charged forward.
Defense was never his style. If he was going down, he'd drag his opponent with him.
As the distance closed, his eyes sharpened, scanning for weakness. Locke stood there, completely still, not even raising a guard.
No stance. No preparation.
Nothing.
"I knew it," Bullseye grinned, a manic edge creeping back into his expression. "You're not built for close combat!"
He raised his gun and fired without hesitation.
"Bang! Bang! Bang!"
The shots rang out in rapid succession, bullets tearing through the air in a deadly barrage. Dozens of rounds flew straight toward Locke's unmoving figure.
"Die! Die!!!"
The trigger clicked empty.
Silence followed.
Locke was still standing.
Not a single step taken. Not a single wound visible.
Bullseye's grin froze.
Locke raised his hand slightly, almost lazily, as if brushing something invisible aside. Then, with a subtle motion, he brought it down.
A simple gesture.
Like cutting through the air.
Bullseye scoffed instinctively, his mind rejecting what he didn't understand. "That's it? You think—"
His voice cut off.
The gun slipped from his hand.
He blinked, confused, and looked down.
His hand was gone.
Cleanly severed at the wrist, the detached limb hitting the ground with a dull thud as blood poured from the stump.
For a moment, his brain refused to process it.
"No… that's…" he muttered, shaking his head. "That's not possible."
There had been no blade. No contact. No visible attack.
Just a gesture.
Hallucination.
It had to be.
But the pain hit next.
Then his legs buckled.
Bullseye collapsed to the ground, his body refusing to respond as he stared down in disbelief. Blood sprayed from his calf—his Achilles tendon had been sliced clean through, the muscle severed with surgical precision.
He couldn't even stand anymore.
Worse—he hadn't seen it happen.
Didn't feel the moment of impact. Didn't register the attack.
Just… loss.
"What… what did you do?" His voice cracked, the earlier arrogance completely gone. "How are you even touching me?"
The man who had once stood at the top of the food chain now looked like something broken. A worm writhing on the floor, stripped of everything that made him dangerous.
Locke didn't answer directly.
Instead, he spoke softly, almost to himself.
"Demons are born from nothing."
"Bang!!"
The sound wasn't a gunshot.
It was something deeper—like reality snapping.
Bullseye's body exploded.
Not in fire or spectacle, but in a violent collapse as the demonic blade energy that had already invaded his body detonated from within. The technique wasn't a simple attack—it was the manifestation of the Demon Blade, a strike that bypassed the surface entirely and carved its target apart from the inside.
There was nothing left to fight.
Nothing left to save.
Silence returned to the factory.
Only the faint dripping of blood remained.
Nearby, Carnage continued to struggle weakly in Locke's grip. But after witnessing Bullseye's end, the symbiote went still almost instantly.
Its writhing slowed.
Then stopped.
If it had a face, it would've been frozen in terror.
The once-violent organism now resembled something oddly… obedient. Like a dog that had just learned what happened to those who stepped out of line.
It didn't even try to escape anymore.
Locke glanced at it, then casually moved Susanoo's massive hand, dragging what remained of Bullseye's body closer.
Carnage trembled.
Its surface rippled violently, deep red tendrils twitching as if debating whether to flee or submit.
"Oh my god…" a faint, distorted thought seemed to echo through its movements. "Is he going to eat me?"
Its body shrank slightly, instinctively recoiling.
Locke, however, did the exact opposite of what it feared.
He tossed it forward.
Straight into the remains.
"Hungry?" he asked with a relaxed smile. "Go on. Eat."
Carnage froze for half a second.
Then—
It moved.
Hesitantly at first, like it didn't trust what was happening. Then faster. Hungrier. The moment it realized it wasn't being hunted, its instincts took over completely.
It devoured.
Flesh, blood, everything that had once been Bullseye disappeared rapidly as the symbiote fed, its form stabilizing with each passing second. The weak, malnourished structure began to thicken, its color deepening into a richer, more violent crimson.
Carnage felt… full.
For the first time since its birth.
"I… I must be dreaming…" the sensation pulsed through its form, almost disbelieving.
—
Meanwhile, inside a S.H.I.E.L.D.-affiliated hospital, the atmosphere was anything but calm.
The place had descended into controlled chaos.
Steve Rogers, along with Hawkeye and Black Widow, had all been pulled aside for emergency treatment. Bandages, medical equipment, and personnel filled every available space as they dealt with the aftermath of the earlier disaster.
Agent Leo Fitz stood off to the side, surveying the wreckage of the laboratory.
His mind raced.
There had been progress—real progress. By studying Venom's biological structure, he had developed new ideas for enhancing agent protective gear. The potential applications alone were groundbreaking.
But he had pushed too far.
Injecting the modified compound had been reckless. The symbiote's escape wasn't just a failure—it was a catastrophic one.
If not for Nick Fury stepping in personally and absorbing most of the blame, Fitz knew exactly where he'd be right now.
Not in a lab.
Not even in a hospital.
He exhaled slowly, trying to steady himself.
That didn't mean he was safe.
A full report was due in a matter of days, and it had to satisfy Fury. Otherwise, the consequences wouldn't be something he could talk his way out of.
And then there was Steve.
Fitz grimaced slightly.
The look on the Captain's face earlier had said enough. If this spiraled any further, he wouldn't need official punishment—Steve Rogers alone would make sure he paid for it.
Pushing those thoughts aside, Fitz moved toward the damaged equipment, already planning what resources he'd need to request for repairs.
That was when he heard it.
A faint noise.
Wet.
Subtle.
Coming from the drainage system near the wall.
He frowned and stepped closer, crouching slightly as he tried to get a better look into the dark opening.
"What… is that?"
"Whoa!!"
A shadow flickered.
Before he could react, something black shot out of the pipe—thick, viscous, and fast. It struck instantly, wrapping around him like living webbing, binding his arms and torso before he could even struggle.
"What the—?!"
Too late.
From the ventilation shaft above, a figure dropped down silently, landing behind him with practiced ease.
Peter Parker.
He stepped in close, his voice low, almost intimate as he leaned toward Fitz's ear.
"You've got some nerve," Peter whispered, the tone chilling in its calmness. "Running experiments on my suit."
His grip tightened slightly.
"I'm going to make sure you regret it."
The words settled like ice.
And for the first time since the incident began—
Fitz felt real fear.
.....
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