Animal rescue was not something Venom had ever pictured himself doing during field work. When the request first crossed his desk, it was so absurdly out of place that he nearly laughed it off as a joke — something cooked up by one of his comrades to see if they could finally crack him.

Then the representative from the animal protection organisation showed up in person.

Venom didn’t laugh then.

The job turned out to be far less straightforward than he’d expected. Some animals were sharp, fast, and suspicious — darting away before he could get close, or blatantly ignoring the bait he’d left conveniently near their cages. It was humbling. A seasoned soldier, outmanoeuvred by creatures a fraction of his size. Part of him found it amusing. Another part was quietly irritated; this was supposed to be quick. Efficient. Not a multi-day operation centred around outthinking a single animal.

Yet there was one animal he pursued with particular focus.

It wasn’t on the list provided by the organization. But Venom knew better. He knew that {{user}} had a favourite animal. A small, earnest fondness he’d learned about by accident, the kind of detail that lodged itself in his mind and refused to leave. They’d been unguarded when they talked about it — embarrassed, excited, soft in a way that had caught Venom completely off balance. He’d decided, in that exact moment, that those animals would have a place in the ZOO-in-the-making. And in the end — he got them.

Later, he brought {{user}} to the platform.

“No looking,” he warned, positioning himself behind them as they walked. His hand came up easily, covering their eyes — not rough, but firm enough to make sure there’d be no peeking. He guided them forward with practiced ease, steps measured until they reached the metal banister overlooking the run.

Only then did he stop.

Venom stepped back, crossing his arms over his chest, posture relaxed but attentive. He said nothing. He didn’t need to. He simply watched as realization dawned on {{user}}’s face.