The harsh scent of industrial bleach and rubbing alcohol hung heavy in the corridors of the Queens General Hospital.
Liz Allan practically sprinted through the sliding glass doors, her boots squeaking against the polished linoleum. Harry was right on her heels, his hand hovering near her shoulder in a silent offer of support. Peter Parker and Johnny Storm stood by the vending machines near the intensive care wing, leaning against the pale plaster wall.
Inside the secured ward, S.H.I.E.L.D.'s mobile tech team had completely locked down the perimeter. Jemma Simmons, wearing a standard-issue white physician's coat over her tactical gear, met Liz and Harry in the hallway. She held a metallic clipboard, flawlessly playing the role of an attending doctor.
"His vital signs are stable," Simmons explained, her tone soothing but professional. "He is simply suffering from severe, acute exhaustion. The... physiological trauma of the event severely depleted his cellular energy reserves. But beyond the physical fatigue, he is fine. However, a traumatic experience of this magnitude will require extensive psychological monitoring. You need to keep a close eye on his mental state."
Liz let out a shuddering breath, her shoulders collapsing as the adrenaline finally left her system. "Can we go in and see him?"
"Of course," Simmons offered a warm smile, stepping aside to scan her badge on the biometric lock. "Take all the time you need."
Liz nodded frantically and rushed into the private room, Harry following closely behind to give her space. The heavy, soundproof door clicked shut.
Simmons immediately dropped the bedside-manner smile. She turned toward Peter and Johnny, her expression shifting back to pure, analytical S.H.I.E.L.D. protocol. She looked at the Human Torch, who was currently trying to extract a bag of chips from the vending machine by slightly melting the plastic coil.
"Excuse me, Mr. Storm," Simmons cleared her throat. "Spider-Man and I have some highly classified, operational logistics to discuss. Due to S.H.I.E.L.D. compartmentalization regulations, I have to ask you to clear the floor."
Johnny popped the melted bag of chips open, completely unbothered. He flashed Simmons a blinding, million-dollar smile. "I get it, sweetheart. Federal red tape. If you want to grab a coffee and talk about something a little less classified after your shift, I'll be waiting out front."
With a cocky wink at Peter, Johnny casually strolled down the hallway, whistling a tune.
Once the corridor was completely empty, Simmons stepped closer to Peter, lowering her voice to a harsh whisper. "Spider-Man. This is an incredibly unorthodox request, but... I need a sample of your blood."
Peter folded his arms across his chest. The white lenses of his mask narrowed. "I'm going to need a very good reason for that, Doc."
"Mr. Toomes's cellular structure has undergone an anomalous mutation," Simmons explained, her eyes wide with scientific fascination. "Specifically, his erythrocytes. The alien organism didn't just wrap around him. It fundamentally fused with his cells on a molecular level. It acted almost like a secondary, invasive cell membrane. The residue is gradually fading from his system, but it's leaving a distinct genetic marker behind. I want to cross-reference his blood work with yours to see if your biology is exhibiting the same integration."
Peter's stomach dropped. His mind instantly connected the dots, pulling from his vast, almost fourth-wall-breaking knowledge of symbiote biology.
The Codex. If a symbiote remained bonded to a human host for more than forty-eight hours, the connection became permanent. The alien didn't just share a body; it absorbed the host's genetic and neural engrams into its massive, cosmic hive-mind. It left behind a piece of itself—a Codex. In the comic lore Peter knew, that Codex was exactly how Eddie Brock and Flash Thompson survived literal death during the King in Black invasion. It was also the exact biological anomaly that Martin Li—Mister Negative—accidentally triggered in Eddie's bloodstream to create the Anti-Venom symbiote.
Adrian Toomes and Lasher had been bonded for just under a day. The Codex process had started, but Johnny Storm's fire had aborted it before it could become permanent.
"Alright," Peter nodded slowly. He reached up and unsealed the heavy polymer gauntlet on his left wrist, exposing his forearm. "You can have a vial. But we are making a hard deal right now. The second you finish sequencing the data, you incinerate the sample. You don't store it. You don't archive it. S.H.I.E.L.D. does not keep my DNA on file."
Simmons blinked, looking slightly offended. "We are an intelligence agency, Spider-Man, not a cloning facility."
"You say that," Peter muttered, keeping his voice deadly serious, "but I am absolutely not waking up one morning to find a bunch of angst-ridden Spider-Clones running around New York. Destroy the blood when you're done. Period."
Simmons nodded, pulling a sterilized syringe from her pocket. She assumed Spider-Man was just exhibiting standard superhero paranoia. She didn't realize Peter's threat wasn't aimed at S.H.I.E.L.D. It was aimed directly at the HYDRA parasites currently rotting the agency from the inside out—specifically, the tactical specialist currently sitting in the hospital parking lot.
Grant Ward sat behind the wheel of a black, armored S.H.I.E.L.D. SUV, the engine idling quietly.
His eyes tracked methodically across the dimly lit parking garage. Being a deep-cover HYDRA operative embedded in Phil Coulson's elite squad was surprisingly mundane. Most of his job consisted of standing around, looking intimidating, and filing mission reports. Coulson did all the heavy lifting, gathering highly classified intelligence on enhanced individuals, and Ward simply forwarded that data directly to HYDRA servers.
A shadow shifted behind a concrete pillar fifty yards away.
Ward's eyes snapped to the movement. His hand instinctively dropped to the grip of his holstered Glock 19. A broad-shouldered, muscular man in a ratty hoodie was pacing nervously near the stairwell, clutching a small, stolen medical lockbox.
Ward didn't draw his weapon. He stepped out of the SUV, adjusting his tailored jacket, and walked casually toward the stairwell. He controlled his breathing. He projected the absolute, harmless neutrality of a bored driver.
As Ward passed the pillar, the muscular man panicked. He lunged out of the shadows, reaching a desperate hand toward Ward's collar.
Ward moved with terrifying, mechanical precision.
He sidestepped the grab. His left hand shot out, catching the man's wrist. He twisted the joint violently inward, applying enough torque to nearly snap the bone. He swept the man's leg, slamming him face-first into the cold concrete. Before the man could even gasp, Ward drove his knee into his spine and pressed the cold steel barrel of his Glock directly behind the man's ear.
"Talk," Ward whispered, his voice completely devoid of emotion. "Who sent you?"
"What?! Man, nobody sent me!" the guy shrieked, his voice cracking in terror. The stolen medical box clattered across the pavement. "I just wanted to lift your wallet! I need cash! Don't shoot me, man, please!"
Ward stared down at the trembling addict. He held the gun steady for three full seconds, reading the man's micro-expressions. Raw, unfiltered panic. No tactical training. Not an assassin.
Ward sneered in disgust. He holstered his weapon and stepped back.
Suddenly, a strange, wet pressure gripped Ward's left ankle.
Ward spun around, dropping into a low combat stance. His eyes scanned the concrete floor. Nothing. Just the terrified addict scrambling to his feet and sprinting wildly toward the exit ramp.
Ward frowned. He reached down and pulled up the cuff of his trousers. His sock was dry. There was no mark on his skin. He shook his head, attributing it to fatigue, and walked back to the SUV.
Ten minutes later, Jemma Simmons emerged from the hospital elevator. She carried a locked, biometric briefcase. Ward opened the passenger door for her, his expression perfectly stoic.
"Productive trip?" Ward asked, putting the SUV in drive.
"Incredibly," Simmons beamed, tapping the metal briefcase. "Spider-Man was surprisingly cooperative. He provided a full blood sample. Though, he was highly adamant that we destroy the vial immediately after running the telemetry. I'll have to brief Coulson on the containment protocols."
Ward kept his eyes on the road. A direct sample of Spider-Man's mutated DNA. John Garrett would pay a fortune for that kind of biological asset.
When they returned to the Bus, however, Ward's quiet ambition hit a titanium wall. Phil Coulson immediately took personal custody of the briefcase. He locked the blood vial inside the mobile command center's primary safe. Coulson enacted a strict, overriding security mandate: the safe would only open if three senior team members inputted their biometric signatures simultaneously.
Ward realized the theft was impossible. He didn't show an ounce of frustration. He simply nodded, filed his standard daily report, and retreated to his bunk to sleep.
In the dark, narrow confines of his quarters, Ward dreamed. He fell back into the suffocating memory of a juvenile detention cell. He remembered the cold floor. He remembered the day a S.H.I.E.L.D. Level 8 Agent named John Garrett had walked into that cell and offered him a way out. He remembered pledging his absolute loyalty to the Clairvoyant. To HYDRA.
Ward's chest began to heave.
A thick, metallic, gray-black sludge slowly seeped out of Ward's pores. The alien fluid pooled on the mattress, rising and hardening into a towering, muscular mass of jagged bio-armor.
Riot stared down at the sleeping S.H.I.E.L.D. specialist.
The symbiote effortlessly tapped into Ward's cerebral cortex, sinking its consciousness into the man's deep-rooted memories. It saw the S.H.I.E.L.D. insignia. It saw the HYDRA octopus. It saw the endless web of lies, assassinations, and absolute, sociopathic duplicity that constructed Grant Ward's entire existence.
Riot's milky white eyes narrowed in genuine surprise.
A parasite hiding within a parasite, Riot thought, a dark, vibrating purr echoing in the silent room.
The symbiote didn't wake him. It simply dissolved back into a liquid state and sank silently beneath Ward's skin, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.