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It had been a cold and uneasy night within the slums of New York City, the rain plummeting towards the Earth in a constant torrent that didn't seem likely to end anytime soon. These parts had always been considered to be a cesspool for the worst violence the human race had to offer, with a history of spawning some of the deadliest crime lords and serial killers in the country, even discounting the metahumans that increasingly made up the lot. But it was during the dead of night, when the shadiest of human filth make their way out of the woodwork, and when the only "heroes" patrolling were hardly on any higher moral ground than those they fought, that the City that Never Sleeps showed its true colors. And yet, for one seemingly lone man walking the suburban streets, no thoughts of predatory mutants or off the grid vigilantes phased him as he made his way across the city.

The man had a tall and bulky build, unkempt blonde hair and a beard, and what appeared to be a hooded jacket covering his head from the downpour. He kept his head low to the ground as he made his way through the cold and unwelcoming metropolis, not making eye-contact with any potential lurkers in the suburbs, as few of them as there were to begin with. Wherever he was going, it was clear he didn't want any attention drawn to himself, or anyone to know who he was or what he was doing.

"Edward Brock."

A voice ran out from an alleyway he had just passed, one which seemed to go on deaf ears as the man continued walking forward.

"Born to a mother who died conceiving you, and a father who wanted nothing to do with you. Former journalist for the Daily Globe, before your piss-poor reporting cost you your job. Formerly married to Anne Weying, till she left you and realized she'd rather be dead than live in a world with you in it."

The man had a passing thought of turning around and beating whoever was talking into the ground, but he continued walking forward.

"Of course, you couldn't deal with either of those, so you blamed some spandex wearing freak of nature and obsessed with him instead of fixing your own issues. And you're still obsessing over him, even if you try to pretend you're not. You're still wearing his old suit, his old skin, after all the good that's done for you."

Another thought in the man's head, one with a different voice, asked him to turn around and splatter his head across the concrete, but he continued walking forward.

"A faked cancer diagnosis, a dead sister you didn't even have, all the innocents it slaughtered just to be by your side. And somehow, you were perfectly okay with that, all of that, just so long as something would be willing to keep you around."

The second voice began to yell inside the man's head, telling him to tear whoever was out there limb from limb and tendon by tendon, but he continued walking forward.

"Y'know, I'd almost say all the shit in your life had been intentional, if that kid of yours hadn't turned out fine."

The man stopped walking.

"But of course...that can always change."

Brock turned around and looked towards the alleyway, the faint silhouette of a man standing in the shadows looking back at him, as he finally replied to the mysterious figure.

"What the hell do you want?"

Even behind the shadows, he could tell the figure smirked at the question.

"Eight hours and forty six minutes from now, your body, what's left of it anyways, will be found within some broken down church about thirty two miles from here. Your 'other', as you'd put it, will go missing for eighteen days, before an unknown entity resurfaces wearing it. And it will slaughter every remotely superpowered individual in Manhattan using your name, including...Dylan, was it?"

Eddie's fists began to clench up as he heard the kid's name, while his jacket lost any resemblance of a natural martial, beginning to crawl up his neck and down his legs while forming a white spider symbol around his chest.

"What is this message supposed to be, exactly?" the anti-hero asked as the suit crawled onto his face, opening two solid white eyes and a jaw of jagged death as he finished his transformation. "Some strange warning of the future, or just some pathetic threat from someone who has no idea what they're dealing with? Whatever it is, it doesn't scare us."

"No, I don't think you understand..." the figure replied as he walked out from beneath the shadows. It was another man, just as tall but a bit lankier, wearing a yellow, red, and black suit. Red lightning began to surge around his body, matching the mirrored lightning bolt symbol on his chest, as he walked out to face the Symbiote with a smug grin on his face.

"A warning implies that this can be avoided or prevented, much less that I'd wish for you to avoid it, and even a threat has a chance of going unfulfilled. Your death is set in history, Brock..."

"...This is a promise."