Toby didn't know about Bullseye's simmering breakdown.
By then, he had already reached his home at 104, 37th Avenue, Flushing, Queens.
Standing at the threshold, Toby rubbed his face, smoothing out the cold, rigid expression left over from the night's slaughter. He forced a natural smile onto his lips before pushing open the door—the one with the "Parker" nameplate—and calling out.
"Dad, Mom, Peter! I'm home."
The moment he stepped inside, he was greeted by the rich, comforting scent of freshly baked cookies.
Almost immediately, a middle-aged couple and a young man, slightly younger than Toby, came to meet him.
The couple were Benjamin and May Parker—his parents in this life. The younger man bore a name the world would eventually come to know: Peter Parker.
In this world, Peter was still a regular teenager, not yet the Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man. Conversely, Uncle Ben and Aunt May had a biological son who shouldn't have existed: Toby.
Toby suspected it had something to do with the mysterious spider that had bitten him in his previous life. Though he hadn't been bitten by any radioactive spiders in this world, he had been different since birth.
He was sturdier than other children, faster, and possessed an intellect that far outstripped his peers. As he grew, these "natural" gifts evolved into something impossible.
He found he could cling to walls at impossible angles. He discovered he could produce high-tensile webbing directly from his wrists. And then there was the "Sense"—the precognitive hum in his skull that warned him of danger before it manifested.
Toby knew exactly what he was. He had the powers of Spider-Man. Specifically, he had the raw, "numerical beast" stats of the version he shared a name with—the "Bully" who could tear through alien symbiotes with his bare hands.
His strength was terrifying. While a standard Spider-Man might struggle to lift ten or twenty tons under normal conditions, Toby could hoist a fully loaded semi-truck with a single hand. He didn't need tech-based web-shooters; he was his own factory. He was a biological powerhouse that few other versions of the Wall-Crawler could match.
But even with a "transmigrator's" knowledge, Toby couldn't change everything. When he was ten, his eight-year-old cousin Peter suffered the protagonist's curse: his parents were lost.
Richard and Mary Parker had left Peter at Toby's house for a "temporary" stay, only for the news of a fatal plane crash to follow shortly after.
At the time, Toby could have used his knowledge of the future to save them. But his powers hadn't fully matured—his webbing and Spider-Sense hadn't even manifested yet. To interfere with a plot involving OsCorp and their "Super-Spider" project while he was still vulnerable was a risk he wasn't willing to take.
Back then, his bond with Peter was shallow. He chose to watch from the sidelines as the Parkers disappeared into history.
Consequently, Peter's temporary stay became permanent. Ben and May became his legal guardians, and Toby became his older brother.
Now, at twenty, Toby stood a full head taller than eighteen-year-old Peter. After eight years under the same roof, the "cousin" label was a mere technicality; they were brothers in every sense that mattered.
Like any Spider-Man, Toby kept his "extracurricular" activities a secret. However, he didn't bother hiding his physical prowess or playing the part of a frail, bullied nerd.
Frankly, at six-foot-six and weighing nearly 310 pounds of pure, dense muscle, he couldn't have played a "weakling" if he tried.
The Parkers never questioned it. Toby hadn't suddenly ballooned in size; he had been a physical anomaly since he was a toddler. They simply attributed it to "god-given" genetics and a dedicated obsession with the gym.
Once Toby had fully mastered his abilities, he hadn't put on a spandex suit to fight muggers in alleyways. Instead, he'd pulled a tactical balaclava over his head and headed for the "fertile soil" of Hell's Kitchen to rob the robbers.
With his "Bully" level stats and precognitive warnings, he was the ultimate predator. Within months, he had amassed over a million dollars in "liberated" underworld cash.
But eventually, he drew the attention of the King of New York.
Wilson Fisk had set a trap—a massive narcotics deal involving a staggering amount of cash, leaked specifically to lure the "masked thief" out.
Toby went. After all, he liked money, and he wasn't ashamed of it.
But he wasn't a fool. The moment he arrived, his Spider-Sense screamed "trap." Instead of walking into the center of the deal, Toby moved through the shadows, quietly snapping the necks of every sniper and hidden gunman Fisk had stationed in the rafters.
Only then did he appear to the "traders," who were still waiting for a jump-scare that had already been defused.
He took the cash, torched the drugs, and let the local neighborhood "enjoy" the fumes. A little community service, Toby figured.
As he was leaving with the briefcase, a phone inside it began to ring. Sensing no immediate danger, Toby answered.
It was Fisk.
The Kingpin didn't offer threats or bluster. Instead, he expressed genuine admiration for Toby's work. He offered to launder Toby's stolen millions and provide him with "legitimate" contracts—work that paid better and carried more prestige than petty theft.
Toby didn't answer. He crushed the phone in his hand.
The next day, he appeared silently in Fisk's private office at the top of Fisk Tower.
When the Kingpin returned to find a masked man sitting in his executive chair with his boots on the desk, he didn't call security. Fisk was a man who valued talent above ego. He followed through on his word: he laundered Toby's money and registered him in the underworld as a high-tier mercenary under the code name: Venom-Spider.
The partnership was simple: Toby needed money, and Fisk needed a scalpels that could cut through steel.
Tonight's massacre of the Sunrise Clan had netted Toby a ten-million-dollar commission. Combined with the "apology" million for the Bullseye incident, he had cleared eleven million in a single night.
In his previous life, he could have driven a truck for ten lifetimes and never seen a fraction of that "pocket change."