""

"Fine," Eddie whispered, a smirk finally tugging at his lips. "But we stay on the rooftops. No eating the neighbors."

The rain in San Francisco didn’t just fall; it hammered against the glass of Eddie Brock’s apartment like a thousand tiny fists. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of stale Chinese takeout and the low hum of a television Eddie wasn't watching.

"" a voice vibrated from within his marrow—a sound like grinding stones and tearing velvet.