Him was a middle-aged, married Hispanic man who tended a small biker bar in one of the seedier parts of Austin.
He was stacked—but it looked like the result of a lifetime of bodybuilding, not pounding Venom.
A simple look from the leader of the duo was all the confirmation Him needed to realize something had gone wrong.
He led them into the basement, where they diluted the Venom.
The air turned sour—hot metal, melting plastic, and something sharp that clung to the lungs.
The lab looked like a meth den designed by mad scientists. Five figures in stained lab coats moved fast and frantic, hands gloved, faces half-covered by cracked respirators. One stirred a black, bubbling liquid over an open flame. Another loaded vials into a battered centrifuge. Sparks flew from a humming condenser beside them, rigged out of scrap medical gear and something that used to be a soda fountain.
Glassware rattled as pressure shifted. Coils pulsed, gauges twitched, and a thick distiller in the corner spat out diluted venom—translucent, glowing faintly, unnatural—into chilled steel trays.
The whole room thrummed like it was one bad decision away from exploding.
They followed Him into a cramped private office with a safe and a few chairs.
I slipped in after them through a thin corridor of Curtain, leaning against the wall and watching while the dealers recounted the night.
By the end of their story, Him was shaking his head and massaging his brow.
"Approaching casuals was already a risk. You're telling me one of them is panic-flushing? You should've brought him to me, or at least called. Hell. Killing him would've been better than giving him a re-up."
And I agreed.
Option one and two would've eventually led to the kid's death anyway, but at least they'd have had time to plan it.
A suicide. A runaway kid story.
Finn's death would've been brutal—but inevitable.
They couldn't let a blabbermouth kid dry out and blow up their entire operation. God help them if the kid's father—or the cops—found the steroids. Finn would fold instantly and take them all down with him.
It was kind of sobering to think that my actions might've indirectly led to his death.
Him expressed my exact sentiment on the situation—just more concisely. The dealers raised counterpoints.
"We were just being careful," the dealer said. "Bodying or disappearing some seventeen-year-old rich white kid will draw attention. A lot of it."
"It won't matter if we're discovered after our entire operation is exposed," Him countered.
"We could still get him," Baldy offered, hunger in his voice. "With the factory shut down in Santa Prisca, we can't afford any loose threads."
Him stayed quiet for a moment, chewing on the idea, then finally spoke.
"Benny here might've jumped the gun, but the situation isn't completely lost. You need to trail the kid. I'll reach out to my police contact. Assess the exposure."
I let out a loud sigh as Curtain expanded, sealing the room off from the rest of the factory.
"Dirty fucking cops again," I groaned, startling them. My voice came out muffled through my half-mask—something new I was trying.
"It's like they're an invasive species. Isn't there anywhere in America where the police do as advertised?"
"What the fuck!" Baldy screamed, drawing a gun from his waistband.
Benny, the lead dealer, joined him. "H-How did you get in here?"
Him was more composed. "You're one of those crazy hero-types, aren't you? Didn't know Austin had one."
"It doesn't," I said. "I'm not a hero. I'm a morally gray mercenary who just happened to stumble on your operation—and wants you out of my town.
Selling to seventeen-year-old losers with body dysmorphia is a bit much, don't you think? Even for Bane."
Him raised a brow. Both dealers flinched—concern flashing across their faces.
"If you hand over all your money and leave Austin now, I won't gut you all."
I knew they weren't going to take the deal, but I offered it anyway.
They shared a confused look. The leader gave the signal. They opened fire.
Bullets pinged off me and clattered to the floor. I rolled my neck once before exploding forward.
With a leap and twist, I kicked both men—sending them flying into the far wall. Then I loomed over Him, who'd pulled a gun from somewhere.
He fired, dead center, at my eye. I didn't flinch.
I swept his arm aside before the realization hit him and clocked him hard.
He collapsed into his chair, nose broken, screaming. I grabbed his face and healed the damage.
"I'm going to break your nose and heal it over and over until I get the answers I'm looking for."
He tried to raise his gun again. I plucked it from his hand, shot both dealers in the chest, and flung the weapon across the room.
Him's heart thundered. I saw the panic rising.
His eyes darted toward the window, then back to me.
"Oh, they can't hear you," I said. "And it won't matter if they could. Wouldn't change a thing.
So—are you going to answer my questions, or do I need to get physical?"
...
I had to get physical.
But I got what I wanted.
The Santa Prisca facility had been taken over by an unknown force. Rumor was they might be gunning for Bane's spot.
Hector—Him's real name—was a lieutenant. He was weighing his options. Stay loyal to Bane, or cut the product and prep an exit strategy with his inner circle if Bane couldn't retake the factory.
It was riveting stuff—and completely above my pay grade.
He had close to five million in reserves, all of which I helped myself to, and nearly two cases of Venom scattered throughout the factory.
I exited the office covered in blood. The response was immediate. Screams. Guns drawn.
Those people fell fast.
I pulled the fire alarm and produced a grenade.
"You've got sixty seconds to clear the bar before I blow this place sky high."
That got them moving.
People bolted up the stairwell. Others came down—and died to precise shots to the head.
I gave them two whole minutes before I tossed the grenade and bolted.
I dove under the bar just as the shockwave hit and the fire rolled through.
Standing up, flames burned all around me. The air choked with chemical smoke.
I threw up a Curtain that stretched out the building and dove out the window.
With a flick of my Cursed Energy, I produced a matte black dirt bike.
Not the most intimidating ride—but it was light and small enough to fit in my expanded inventory.
With the lights off, I tore down the street, cutting through back alleys and makeshift ramps I'd set up ahead of time.
I rolled up to the neighborhood just before midnight and opened a complex Curtain corridor that led back to the house.
As I drove up, I spotted someone sitting on the roof, sharing a blunt with Sasha.
Artemis?