Not So Friendly Anymore

Chapter 45: Not Dead Yet

Peter's fingers twitched.

It was small at first, just the faintest curl of his index finger against the cold stone. Then his hand flexed, knuckles whitening as black tendrils tightened gently around it, supporting, anchoring.

The symbiote didn't speak. It didn't need to. It simply was, a quiet, steady presence wrapping tighter around his broken body, sealing wounds, slowing the bleeding, keeping what little life remained from slipping away. The white spider emblem on his chest pulsed once, soft and protective, like a heartbeat syncing with his own fading one.

In the black void where Peter floated, the warmth around his hand grew stronger.

We've got you, Venom rumbled again, the voice low and rough, almost gentle. Not letting go this time.

Peter squeezed the tendril back, weak but deliberate.

"...Good," he whispered into the nothing.

"Because I don't think I can do this alone."

The golden thread above him pulled harder, glowing brighter, tugging him upward through the endless dark like a lifeline thrown into deep water.

---

Back on the broken bridge, the battlefield was still a storm of chaos and crimson fury.

Malice tore through the air like a silver-and-red comet, her force fields no longer shields but weapons, crushing, tearing, slamming into Gorr with vicious precision. Every strike carried the weight of grief and love twisted into something sharp and unforgiving. Gorr met her blow for blow, the Necrosword screaming as it clashed against her constructs, black tendrils lashing out to counter her rage.

Thor charged again, roaring, lightning exploding around him. Odin stood like an unyielding pillar, Gungnir flashing beams of solar fire. Sable had dragged herself back into the fight, pistols barking, her face set in grim determination despite the blood on her lips.

No one had noticed Peter yet.

No one had seen the black tendrils slowly covering his body.

No one had seen his fingers twitch again.

Then his hand closed fully around the staff that had fallen beside him.

The Staff of Anansi hummed, soft at first, then louder, golden light flickering along its length as if waking up.

Peter's eyes opened.

Not glowing. Not yet.

Just open.

Brown. Human. Exhausted.

But alive.

A ragged breath tore from his lungs, followed by a wet cough that sprayed blood across the stone. The symbiote tightened around the wound on his chest and back, holding everything together by sheer stubborn will.

Peter pushed himself up on one arm, vision swimming, the world tilting violently. The sounds of battle crashed back in, screams, thunder, the clash of divine weapons, Malice's furious shouts.

His eyes found Gorr in the chaos.

The Butcher was still fighting, still standing, the Necrosword carving through everything in its path. But for the briefest moment, Gorr's gaze flicked toward him.

Their eyes met.

Gorr's expression didn't change.

But something in the air shifted.

Peter gripped the staff tighter, knuckles white, black tendrils still visibly wrapping around his forearm like living
armor.

He forced himself to his feet, swaying, blood dripping from his chin.