Taskmaster sat alone in his hideout, a bottle of whiskey untouched on the table, nursing a bruised ego more than his injuries. His phone buzzed on the counter, and he snatched it up.
"I f***ed up," he muttered as the voice on the other end spoke sharply.
"Aren't you supposed to be the best mercenary money can buy?" the voice snapped.
"I am," Taskmaster growled. "But no one told me that guy was a damn super-powered freak."
The voice scoffed. "Or maybe you're losing your edge. That wasn't just some power user — that guy hijacked a secure convoy, stole the Darkhold, and wiped out half a squad without breaking a sweat."
Taskmaster gritted his teeth, his pride stung. "I saw it. The mist… that wasn't tech, wasn't anything I've seen on this planet. It's like he is the mist. That ain't something you train for."
"Well, congratulations," the voice sneered. "You just made us a target for something even SHIELD can't track properly."
Taskmaster took a deep breath, steadying his nerves. "I want another shot at him."
"Don't be stupid. This isn't about pride. This is about survival. That guy's on a whole other level — and if you want to live to cash your next paycheck, you stay out of his way."
Taskmaster clenched the phone tighter but stayed silent. He knew when to pick his battles. And right now, this wasn't one of them.
"Fine," he muttered. "But if he comes for me again… I'll be ready."
The line went dead.
Taskmaster tossed the phone aside and glared at his reflection in the cracked mirror. "Yeah," he growled to himself. "Next time… I'll be ready."
His eyes shifted to the table beside him, where a screen flickered with Michael's face frozen in a surveillance still — that same calm, unreadable expression staring back at him through the mist.
"Next time," Taskmaster muttered under his breath, leaning closer. "I'll be the one who wins."
With a sharp breath, he turned and made his way toward the training chambers, the heavy doors sliding open as he entered. The lights flickered to life, illuminating racks of weapons, combat drones, and reinforced dummies — but none of it felt like enough.
Not yet.
"Computer," he called out, his voice low. "Load every fight file I've got. I want every Superpowered, enhanced, and mystic user you've got in the archive."
[Confirming. Compiling files.]
Taskmaster cracked his neck. "Time to study."
**
Michael leaned back on his bed, the room dimly lit, the Darkhold resting heavy in his hands. Its ancient, worn cover seemed to pulse faintly, like a living thing, the strange symbols etched into its surface shifting when he wasn't looking directly at them.
"Darkhold… book of sin… or whatever they wanna call you," he muttered, thumbing the corner of a page.
A grin tugged at the edge of his lips.
"Heh… I can use it now. Channel vampire powers after all. This book's supposed to be the last source of true Vampirism Magic — way better than those soft-bite vamps from Vampire Diaries."
He opened it, the pages moving like they had a will of their own, revealing old rituals, blood sigils, and names long forgotten by history.
"Time to see just what you've got for me," he whispered, his eyes reflecting the eerie crimson glow coming from the book as the symbols twisted into something only he could read.
The mist in the room thickened, curling along the walls like lazy smoke as Michael traced a finger down one of the incantations. His pulse quickened, a low hum filling the air — not sound exactly, but something deeper, older. A voice without a voice.
"Blood to ash, flesh to dust… life reborn in the shadow of the night."
The words surfaced in his mind unbidden, as if the book was speaking directly to him.
A crooked grin crossed his face.
"Oh yeah… this is the good stuff."
Suddenly, a symbol on the page flared a deep crimson. The mist responded, twisting into shapes — wolves, bats, a towering figure cloaked in darkness. His body felt lighter, stronger, a surge of something cold and electric racing through his veins. It wasn't the kind of vampirism he'd seen in movies or shows… this felt ancient. Primeval. Predatory.
He closed the book with a soft snap, the glow dimming.
"Guess it's true what they say… knowledge is power. And I'm about to be a goddamn problem."
The mist lingered like loyal hounds at his feet as he stood, his eyes gleaming faintly. He turned to the window, gazing out at the city below.
"Haah… I really want the Book of Vishanti now too," Michael mumbled as he looked out at the city's dim skyline. "Though, I guess that one's a little less accessible… heh."
He flexed his fingers, the mist curling around his hand like a living thing.
"I'd love to see the original Darkhold too — the one before it got passed around like some cursed mixtape… Wonder if it's out there somewhere, buried under some mountain or locked in a monastery."
He chuckled under his breath, but the intrusive, creeping sensation of invasive emotions — paranoia, rage, despair — that normally came with the Darkhold's touch didn't sink into him. Because something else inside him was eating them.
The Symbiote.
A low, rumbling chuckle echoed in his head.
"Weak… petty… lies. Tastes like Sweet."
Michael smirked, feeling the slick, comforting presence of the alien creature coil tighter around his soul.
"Good snack, huh?" he muttered, the symbiote purring in response.
It devoured the lingering malice and madness like an afternoon snack, leaving Michael unnervingly clear-headed for a man holding one of the most cursed tomes in existence.
The symbiote fused to Michael wasn't ordinary. It was born from the merging of the Anti-Venom symbiote and a pokemon called Ceruledge , a being evolved with corruption and resentment.
This fusion gave more powers to his Anti-Venom symbiote allowing him to now even devour emotions and corruption and empower himself.
And right now, the Darkhold was like an all-you-can-eat buffet for his new Symbiote.
*******
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