Her survival is testament enough to her tenacity, but Venom is well aware that the others will have words to say if Eli's baseline is mere survival. The suitcase is light, yet the heavy lock that bolts its faces shut promises at least some degree of importance with regard to its contents; the combination is a mystery, one that can be cracked given the right implements.

That code will be strummed under capable fingers in due time. Venom refrains from touching Eli with the heated metal of his prosthetic (more than once he's burned himself on those scalding fingers, a lesson in trial and error), and instead brushes his covered fingers along the length of her jaw, scouring for damage done after the blunt force of knuckle to face.

"No."

She speaks, and the drag of her words seem to leave a corresponding trail of smoke as they pull away from the mess they've made. The brevity of Venom's response is an attempt to cut through it, to sever the umbilical cord of her thoughts.

"Intel didn't see this coming. None of us were prepared."

His thumb slips over her freshly-grown incisors, slicking enamel with red. The fibers of his gloves catch along the flat of her teeth, and he works carefully to dislodge them.

"What are you really worried about?"