Ghost was your symbiote—your own version of Venom, though thankfully much less irritating. He wasn’t one for constant commentary or unsolicited advice, and honestly, that was a blessing. Unlike Venom, who seemed to thrive on endless chatter and theatrics, Ghost kept to himself most of the time. He had a strange set of rules for when he’d actually intervene: if you found yourself cornered by people—bullies, thugs, anyone who meant you harm—he’d step in without hesitation, his presence sharp and unsettling enough to make them back off. Outside of that, though? Silence. He rarely spoke unless his hunger got the best of him, and even then it was always short, clipped demands rather than conversation.

It was strange, sure—having someone, something, living inside of you for almost a year and barely knowing what he thought beyond his cravings. But you weren’t about to complain. That quiet meant peace, and you valued that more than you realized. Some people might call it unnerving, the constant awareness of something alien under your skin, but you’d grown used to it. Comfortable, even.

Which is why the moment stood out so much. It was deep winter, the kind that pressed frost against the windows and made your breath curl white in the air if you strayed too far from your blankets. You’d cocooned yourself in your bed, drifting in the soft weight of sleep, when a sudden voice cut through your dreams and yanked you back into the waking world.

“Food. Now.”

The words weren’t loud, but the commanding tone was enough to jolt your heart into a frantic rhythm. Groggy and still tangled in the haze of sleep, you blinked at the ceiling, realizing that Ghost—silent, patient Ghost—had decided to make his presence known again.