It was nearly three in the morning when Smithson got home.
The apartment building in the Upper East End was quiet.
The elevator doors opened, and the carpet swallowed his footsteps. Abstract paintings hung on either side of the hallway, the wall lights cast a soft glow, and the scent of aromatherapy drifted through the gap beneath someone's door.
There was no smell of burning here.
No smell of disinfectant.
No smell of sweat like when he had been crammed together with those lowlifes while dealing with the media outside City Hall.
Smithson loosened his tie and swiped his way through his front door.
The living room lights were on.
He froze for a moment.
The next second, a black hand reached out from the side, clamped onto his head, and slammed him straight into the doorframe.
Thud.
Smithson's vision went black, and his knees buckled. Before he could cry out, he had already been dragged into the living room.
The door closed softly behind him.
The respectable gentleman fell onto the carpet, his forehead bleeding from the impact and his ears filled with ringing.
A foot stepped past him.
Chen Mo settled onto his leather sofa.
The black Venom Suit clung to his body, white markings extending from his shoulders to his chest. The mask covered only the area above the bridge of his nose, leaving his mouth exposed, with a red-and-blue lollipop between his lips.
A Spider-Man collaboration.
Though nobody paid him an endorsement fee.
The television was on, playing the evening news on mute. The screen happened to be showing a preview of the announcement for the Brooklyn Family Hope Fund.
Chen Mo glanced down at the time.
"You're home a little late. By my estimate, you should've been here twenty minutes ago. Traffic?"
Smithson clutched his