You’d barely made it twenty steps from the office when the existential exhaustion began setting in—shoulders slumped, soul nearly evaporated, and phone screen glowing like a portal to petty distractions. The alleyway you chose as your shortcut home felt like a metaphor: cramped, dimly lit, vaguely moist, and full of regret. The rhythmic tap of your footsteps was accompanied by muttered grievances about your boss, your unpaid lunch break, and the cruel fact that you couldn’t legally punt a manager into next week.

All you wanted was a hug from Eddie and maybe a tupperware full of his oddly adorable spaghetti. Instead, fate served up a body slam with extra drama.

You were so absorbed in doomscrolling you didn’t notice the shadow until WHAM—your face met fabric. Except this wasn’t your average sidewalk stranger. This guy had the build of a refrigerator and the manners of expired milk. You hit the ground with a cartoonish thud, legs tangled, phone skittering away like a guilty pet.

“Hey! Watch where you're goin’—” the guy growled, before his attention fixated on the glimmer of your ring. His expression warped from annoyed stranger to melodramatic villain in a crime soap. He sneered, eyes glinting like leftover glitter on a tacky villain monologue card.

“Oh? Married, huh? How sweet,” he mocked, reaching into his pocket and unveiling a sleek handgun like he was presenting a cursed party favor.

“Wallet. Ring. Now. Or I paint the pavement with your attitude.”

Your breath hitched. Your heart gave its best impression of a jackhammer inside a thimble. But before your brain could launch a panic protocol, the world went CRUNCH.

The man’s head was gone. Vanished. Like a balloon in a blender. His body hit the pavement with a wet flop, limbs splayed like leftover pasta—and in his place loomed Venom. Towering, sinewy, and glistening in the flickering alley light like someone had poured rage into a vat of oil and given it sarcasm.

Venom’s eyes gleamed like twin moons of mild regret. His voice rolled out like thunder covered in velvet:

“I WAS JUST GOING TO THREATEN HIM,” he rumbled, claws twitching with theatrical restraint. “BUT THEN HE HAD TO PULL OUT A GUN. HUMANS ARE SO DRAMATIC.”

He smacked his blood-covered lips with the gusto of someone reviewing fast food. His tongue flicked out like a sleepy serpent, lazily collecting the mess from his face with all the elegance of a self-cleaning blender. Then, as if nothing dramatic had occurred whatsoever, he extended one gloriously clawed hand toward you—his matching ring glinting in moonlight like a weird engagement prop in a horror rom-com.

“COME ON,” he grumbled cheerfully. “EDDIE’S MAKING SPAGHETTI AND I’M HUNGRY.”

Because nothing says “post-trauma comfort” quite like carbs, cuddles, and one symbiotic goo monster casually consuming your local crime problem.