Felicia's grip on Ethan's arm tightened involuntarily, her fingers clutching so hard that the pressure made his skin ache. Her face had gone pale. The chaos of the exhibition center—the screams, the falling debris, the flashes of fire—rattled her to her core. Felicia Hardy had seen a lot in her years as the elusive Black Cat, but this attack came without warning or logic, and the unpredictability shook her more than she cared to admit.
Ethan could feel the tension in her fingers, the panic trembling just beneath her composed exterior. He didn't need Venom's input to know Felicia was terrified.
"It's alright," he said in a low voice as he carefully steered them away from the heart of the venue. "I saw some of the staff calling emergency services. NYPD and emergency response will be here in minutes. Just hang tight."
But even as he said it, Ethan's eyes remained locked on the lunatic swooping overhead on the jet-glider. Hobgoblin. He flew in wide, erratic arcs, his laughter shrill and unhinged, scattering guests like leaves in the wind.
Ethan's jaw clenched. The carnage was immediate—blood, debris, smoke—and Hobgoblin had done it all in less than sixty seconds. Ethan couldn't stand by and watch this slaughter unfold. But with Felicia clinging to his side, he couldn't risk transforming here—not yet.
He grimaced slightly. If only she'd fainted like a normal civilian, he thought, instantly chastising himself for it. But her grip left no room for escape, and her wide eyes hadn't blinked in thirty seconds. The way she dug her nails into his arm made it impossible to disengage without drawing attention.
Unaware of Ethan's internal struggle, Felicia's mind was locked in silent prayer. Please let the cops show up soon… Please…
Meanwhile, Hobgoblin continued his chaotic flight before dropping down onto the exhibition floor with the theatrical flair of a madman. With no hesitation, he smashed through one of the high-security display cases and began stuffing priceless Wakandan gold, Eastern European sapphires, and South American emeralds into a satchel with greedy delight.
"HEEHEEHEE! Jackpot, jackpot! Daddy's getting paid today!" Hobgoblin cackled, clutching a handful of rubies and diamonds and pouring them into his sack like candy.
Nearby, a rotund man who had tripped during the blast lay on the floor, moaning from a cut on his temple. His soft sobbing caught Hobgoblin's attention.
The villain turned, tilted his head, and stalked toward him with unnatural slowness. "Ehh? What's this?" Hobgoblin leaned in, his jagged mask close enough that the man whimpered and recoiled.
"I get it… You're wondering why the hell Spider-Man isn't swinging in to save the day, right?" Hobgoblin laughed again, wild and unpredictable. "Well, guess what, tubby—he's too busy dealing with that burning office building in Midtown. And your precious cops? Fifteen minutes out, minimum. You think I didn't do my homework? I'm Hobgoblin, baby! I don't do sloppy!"
With that, he turned his back and resumed pillaging the display cases, muttering gleefully about diamonds and "personal bonuses."
But just as he reached into another case—thwip—a line of white webbing wrapped tightly around his arm. Hobgoblin froze mid-motion, his eyes narrowing behind his mask.
"What the hell—?!"
Before he could process it, he was yanked off his feet like a ragdoll. The sack of stolen jewels flew from his hands as his body rocketed across the hall and smashed into the far wall with a loud crack, leaving hairline fractures in the marble.
Groaning, Hobgoblin slumped to the floor, his jet-glider circling aimlessly above. He blinked through his daze and looked back toward the center of the venue.
There, emerging from the shadows of a cracked pillar, was not Spider-Man, but a tall, menacing figure clad in black. His face was hidden beneath a tight hood with only two glowing white eye lenses visible. In his hand, he held the other end of the webbing—though it wasn't quite web. It was Venom's synthetic bio-thread.
"What the—You're not Spider-Man," Hobgoblin snarled, struggling to stand. "Who the hell are you?"
Ethan didn't answer. While Hobgoblin was momentarily stunned, he'd already moved swiftly behind the scenes, using Venom's tendrils to clear away fallen beams and debris, pulling pinned civilians to safety and shielding them behind intact stone pillars.
One child clung to him briefly before he ushered her toward a safe zone. An elderly woman sobbed and kissed his hand. But he didn't stay to bask in gratitude.
Because this wasn't over.
Hobgoblin had declared war on New York's civilians—and Ethan was done watching.
Upon hearing the villain's question, Ethan didn't offer a name or an explanation. Instead, he stepped forward through the settling dust, his voice calm but rasped with menace: "Didn't you say you liked to laugh? So laugh now."
"You bastard!" the Hobgoblin snarled, his fury igniting. He swiftly pulled out several spherical orange bombs—pumpkin-shaped and carved with jagged grins, a signature hallmark of his weapons in the comics—and hurled them directly at Ethan.
With barely a twitch of panic, Ethan responded by launching several high-tensile web threads—each one not silk but a synthetic organic compound forged by Venom. The threads intercepted the pumpkin bombs mid-air, wrapped around them, and flung them up through the shattered ceiling before they could detonate in the crowd.
BOOM! A fiery shockwave burst in the night sky outside. Though the explosion never touched the floor, the rumbling air pressure reverberated through the entire building, making walls quake and chandeliers tremble. Screams rose again from the panicked survivors still sheltering inside the venue.
Before Ethan could recover from the blast, a new barrage of rapid gunfire echoed from behind.
Hobgoblin had already remounted his glider and was swooping low through the exhibition hall, twin rotary guns on the glider's front unleashing hot lead with mechanical precision.
"More bullets?!" Venom growled from within Ethan's mind. His symbiotic voice roared with irritation.
Ethan didn't wait. He shot two thick web strands directly at the glider's undercarriage and yanked hard, anchoring the vehicle in place. The sudden shift jerked Hobgoblin's flight pattern off course.
Then, with a firm grip on the webs, Ethan spun them like whips, sending the glider—and the cackling lunatic atop it—into a dizzying arc like a flailing yo-yo. Hobgoblin shouted in surprise as he spiraled uncontrollably through the air.
Mid-swing, Ethan formed his right hand into a pistol gesture. The symbiote responded, hardening into a sleek, living firearm. Venom's bio-matter compressed a cluster of kinetic energy and expelled it in bursts.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
Each shot slammed into Hobgoblin's face, the force enough to dent the metal mask at the brows. Yet instead of drawing blood, the bullets merely caved the reinforced surface. His high-grade ballistic polymer mask—clearly stolen Oscorp tech—held firm.
Ethan narrowed his eyes. "Should've saved my ammo. A few more shots might've cracked the plating."
"Hmph! You don't need bullets!" Venom grumbled. "Let me out, I'll run a claw through his gut and wear his face as a mask."
"Yeah, well, maybe if he wasn't gliding around like a lunatic," Ethan muttered.
Above them, Hobgoblin was pale behind his cracked mask, sweat dripping into his eyes. He hadn't expected this. Who the hell was this guy? He looked like Spider-Man—but wasn't Spider-Man. There were web attacks, sure, but this one shot actual bullets, moved faster, hit harder.
Spider-Man quipped. This guy threatened.
And that weapon—absorbing bullets and firing them back with symbiote compression? This guy's a damn nightmare.
I could've died. The realization slammed into Hobgoblin like another punch. If it weren't for the bulletproof mask, his brains would be leaking onto the museum floor.
No. Screw the jewels. Screw the plan. This one's not worth the payout.
Grimacing, Hobgoblin activated the escape mechanism on his glider. Two hidden blades unfolded from the side of the glider, spinning rapidly. With a shriek of metal, they sliced through Ethan's webbing in one smooth rotation.
Then, with an acrobatic dive, Hobgoblin yanked back control and began ascending through the broken skylight, shouting gleefully, "You'll never catch the Hobgoblin! So long, freak! Hahahaha!"
But as he soared upward, Ethan's back flexed and erupted into motion. Multiple black tendrils, born of Venom's living mass, burst from his shoulders and snapped into the air like whips.
They chased after the glider with uncanny speed, attempting to latch onto Hobgoblin's limbs or the glider's fins to drag him back down.
"Wha—What the hell?!" Hobgoblin gasped. He veered wildly to the left, then the right, dodging with unpredictable movements.
He hadn't expected this stranger to have tentacles, too. Who the hell was this guy?
And more importantly—how the hell was he still alive?
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