Walter Newell woke to the sound of breathing that wasn't his own.
That was how he always oriented himself in the morning—by listening. His wife Diane slept curled toward him, one hand resting lightly on his chest as if to confirm he was still there. The room was dim, coastal light leaking in through the curtains in a pale wash. Somewhere outside, gulls cried and the ocean answered in a low, distant rhythm.
Walter turned carefully, leaned down, and kissed Diane's forehead.
His wife stirred. "Morning," she murmured, eyes still closed.
"Morning," Walter said back, smiling despite himself.
He slipped out of bed, already mentally running through the day ahead. There was a briefing scheduled with the marine biologists. A structural stress test on the eastern dome. A new batch of composite plating arriving that he wanted to inspect personally. He stretched, rolled his shoulders, and headed for the shower.
By the time he came back, dressed, Diane was sitting up, putting her large hoop earrings on. With short black hair and a lithe figure, she was a young millennial woman.
"Heading out early again?"
"It's to save the world," Walter corrected. "Good reason, I feel."
She smiled at him, the same way she always did—proud, a little worried, endlessly patient. "I'll be there."
"You know, I sometimes forget we work together."
She rolled her eyes. "Ha. Ha."
Smiling, he kissed her properly this time, grabbed his bag, and left.
The Pacific Research Arc sat far enough offshore that the city behind it looked like a rumor. From above, the site resembled a silver bloom beneath the water. Multiple domed structures connected by thick reinforced tunnels, anchored to the seabed by pylons driven deep into rock. It was ambitious. Arrogant, some critics said. Walter preferred necessary.
The world was running out of room. Running out of arable land. Running out of time. And after Creature Z, the world ran on a great deal more fear and consequently his funding increased exponentially.
This project—an undersea agricultural city designed to grow food at scale using engineered kelp, algae, and pressure-adapted crops—was what he desired and what wealthy investors were interested in. It was called Project HYDROBASE.
Walter arrived by car earlier than the rest of the senior staff. There were just over two hundred people on-site today: engineers, divers, biologists, materials scientists, construction crews. Walter knew most of them by name. He made a point of it.
"Morning, Walt."
"Hey, boss."
"Dr. Newell."
"Walter," he corrected, as always.
The boss of the Pacific Research Arc took himself to the staging bay, where twenty suits stood upright in docking frames like something out of a science fiction novel.
The Stingray suits.
Walter paused, as he often did, just to look at them.
He had designed the first prototype years ago, back when the idea of sustained deep-sea habitation had still been laughed out of most funding meetings. The suit was a compromise between biology and engineering. The oxygen diffusion system mimicked fish gills, extracting dissolved oxygen from seawater and supplementing it with internal reserves. It could operate safely down to twelve hundred feet. Strong enough to withstand pressure, flexible enough for precision work.
He came early only to run diagnostics. His senior coworkers arrived half an hour later. They greeted him happily and with chide remarks.
"Already here, boss?"
"You know, you really don't have to come early. Even your wife doesn't."
Logically, yes. But his brain was hard-wired to come early and triple check everything.
The team suited up together. Helmets sealed. Systems came online. The internal comms crackled to life.
"Check, check," Walter said. "Everyone hear me?"
A chorus of affirmatives followed.
They entered the water as one.
Underwater, the world changed.
Sound dulled. Motion became fluid, effortless. The suits' propulsion systems engaged, allowing them to move quickly between sections of the dome. Sunlight filtered down in wavering columns, turning the metal structures into something almost beautiful.
They got to work on Project HYDROBASE.
Walter supervised reinforcement on one of the primary load-bearing arches, guiding the placement of composite plates with small, precise movements. He listened to reports from the biologists about nutrient flow, redirected power to a section that was drawing too much current, and answered questions from junior engineers without a trace of irritation.
Halfway through the shift, something went wrong.
"Walter," came a voice over comms, tight with strain. "We've got a pressure fluctuation in Dome Three. Eastern segment."
His stomach clenched. "Magnitude?"
"Rising. Fast."
"Everyone clear the area," Walter ordered. "Now."
He kicked off, propulsion flaring, streaking through the water toward Dome Three. The problem was immediately obvious: a microfracture in one of the newer panels. Poor alignment during installation. Under pressure, it was spreading.
If it failed, the entire segment could flood.
Walter anchored himself, magnetic boots clamping onto the frame. He extended the suit's manipulators and began applying a temporary seal compound, working quickly but carefully. His suit absorbed the strain, muscles enhanced, movements steady despite the water forcing itself through the growing crack.
"Hold pressure steady," he said. "Don't let it spike."
"I'm trying—"
"Do it," Walter snapped, sharper than he meant to, then softened his tone. "You've got this."
Minutes stretched. The crack slowed, then stopped.
Cheers erupted over comms. Walter exhaled, only realizing then how tightly he'd been holding his breath.
"Good work, everyone," he said. "Let's get the permanent fix in place."
By the time they surfaced and de-suited, exhaustion had set in, but so had satisfaction. Another problem solved. Another step closer to something that mattered. Getting out of the suit, the first thing he asked a coworker was, "Say, is my wife still around?"
"Oh. Hm, don't think I've saw her. She probably went home early."
Ah. That was a bit strange. They worked in different departments, so they were never in constant communications. Hell, it wasn't odd to not interact up until they came home together. Although they tried to make an effort to take the car home together, on days like this when Walter had to do overtime, she left early. She was a stickler for her sleep and schedule. In some ways, she was just like him.
"Must have done too much overtime," he muttered, smiling.
It was a weekend too. Going home, he drove with a spring.
Except…home smelled wrong. That was the first thing he noticed when he entered.
"Diane?" Walter called, setting his bag down.
No answer.
He frowned, unease prickling along his spine. Her schedule dictated she be making food, not sleeping. Was today really that bad? He moved toward the kitchen, forcing a smile onto his face out of habit.
"I'm back," he said, stepping inside.
The smile died instantly.
A massive man stood behind Diane, one arm locked around her shoulders. His other hand held a knife, its edge pressed gently—but unmistakably—against her throat.
Diane's eyes were wide, terrified, locked on Walter.
"Scream," the man said calmly, his voice deep and even, "or she dies."
Walter dropped to his knees without hesitation.
"Please," he said, hands raised, voice breaking. "Please don't hurt her. Take anything. Money, designs—whatever you want. Just let her go."
The man studied him for a long moment. Walter swallowed and kept staring with fear. He didn't know how to act or if he should.
"Good," he said finally. "You understand the situation."
Walter nodded frantically. "Yes. Yes. Just—please."
The man leaned closer to Diane's ear, murmuring something too low for Walter to hear, then looked back at him. He was wearing a mask. All that Walter could tell was he was huge and had a voice modulator to blur his voice. If he had an accent or diction, Walter couldn't tell.
"You are going to answer my questions."
The knife pressed a fraction closer.
"About a facility you helped design," M'Baku continued. "One built for SHIELD."
Walter swallowed hard. "Y-you're talking about…"
"You know what I'm talking about. Tell me everything," M'Baku said, "and your wife lives."
***
Some geniuses were the same. They had a strict schedule. They had a particular quirk. Lei Ling was no different. Her mornings always began the same way: without indulgence.
At 5:42 a.m., her alarm chimed. She silenced it with a single motion, already awake. Shanghai beyond the curtains was still dim, the sky a washed-out slate color that promised heat later. The Huangpu River lay somewhere beyond the high-rises. It was more of an instinctive thought, one born from an architect that was constantly thinking.
She rose, padded barefoot across polished concrete floors, and drew the curtains open exactly halfway. Too much light too early dulled the eye. Too little invited laziness. Balance mattered.
Her apartment sat on the twenty-ninth floor of a residential tower in Xuhui District, not ostentatious despite her wealth. Clean lines, exposed beams, natural stone. Nothing unnecessary. Everything intentional. Lei Ling believed buildings revealed the moral character of their architects.
By 6:00 a.m., she was dressed: loose linen trousers, a crisp white blouse, flat leather shoes, and dark hair tied back. No jewelry except a thin jade ring her grandmother had given her when she graduated Tongji University at the top of her class.
She brewed coffee herself. Ethiopian beans, light roast, ground fresh. As the kettle heated, she stood by the window, eyes tracing the skyline. She could tell, just by the way glass caught early light, which buildings were cutting corners on materials and which were not. Most were not.
Again, it was instinct. It was the mark of a genius, or a weirdo depending on a person's perspective.
At 6:25 a.m., she reviewed overnight messages on her tablet while eating toast with avocado and sesame oil. Sacred Tree Design's offices were already alive. It was her firm. Yes, her firm. She employed sixty-seven people across Shanghai, Singapore, and Berlin. She skimmed structural reports, rejected one proposed façade revision without comment, approved another with a brief note: Material change acceptable. Watch thermal expansion.
At 7:10 a.m., Ling Lei left her apartment.
Down on the street, Shanghai had woken fully. Electric scooters buzzed past. Vendors shouted. The air smelled faintly of oil, steam, and rain-soaked pavement from a shower the night before. Lei Ling walked three blocks to her usual café: a narrow place tucked beneath an old plane tree, its roots cracking the sidewalk like veins.
She ordered the same thing every day. Black coffee. No sugar.
She sat by the window, back straight, eyes drifting. It just wasn't possible to pay attention to anything but the buildings across the street. She noticed a hairline crack in the corner of a neighboring structure's concrete column. Poor curing process. It would worsen in summer. It wasn't a big deal. It wasn't.
But to her brain, it was annoying.
She chuckled anyway. Her work genuinely comforted her. In the past, she might have sighed and thought about it endlessly. But work, her firm, it made her focus. She finished her coffee in exactly ten minutes.
At 8:00 a.m., Ling Lei arrived at Sacred Tree Design's main office, a converted warehouse near the river, all steel trusses and daylight. The staff straightened when she entered, not out of fear, but respect. Lei Ling was not a mean woman. The opposite, really. She was polite and hard-working.
"Hello, everyone!"
Ling Lei greeted with curt nods and waves.
Her morning passed in meetings. At 8:15, a consultation with municipal officials about a cultural center in Pudong. At 9:30, a design review for a coastal research facility proposal in Guangdong—she dismissed the preliminary draft as "structurally timid." At 10:45, a call with her Berlin team regarding adaptive reuse of a Cold War-era bunker.
At noon, Ling Lei ate lunch at her desk: steamed fish, rice, greens. She read a paper on composite materials while she ate.
At 1:30 p.m., she left the office for a site visit.
The project was a mixed-use tower near Lujiazui, still skeletal. You know, rebar exposed, concrete curing under protective sheets. She walked the site in a hard hat and boots, eyes sharp, fingers brushing surfaces. She knelt to examine a support beam and frowned.
"This weld is sloppy," Ling Lei said calmly to the site manager. "Redo it."
He opened his mouth to protest, then thought better of it. She was polite about it, and well, she was the boss here.
By 4:10 p.m., she was done. She returned to her office briefly, signed off on a few documents, then left for the day. She preferred evenings to herself.
At 5:30 p.m., Lei Ling returned home.
She cooked dinner: simple noodles, broth, scallions. She listened to music while she ate. It was pop, actually. She hummed. Ling Lei quite enjoyed Western music. Afterward, she spent an hour sketching by hand. Not for work, for herself.
At 8:15 p.m., she showered.
At 8:45 p.m., she watched TV. Again, she was watching an English movie. She really enjoyed western media.
She did not notice the cleaner woman peering through her window. She was at the twenty-ninth floor of the Xuhui District. It should have been impossible.
Not for Yelena Belova. She had been following her since she woke up.
From the upper floor of an unremarkable residential building opposite Lei Ling's tower, Yelena set up shop. If or when she returned to the window, Yelena could easily climb up or down. She could easily retreat. Hell, even from the place she rented, she could watch through a narrow gap in the curtains. She had chosen the vantage point carefully—high enough for a clear line of sight, angled to avoid reflection, anonymous enough not to draw attention.
But of course, watching from the opposite side of a street wasn't enough. She had to pretend to be a cleaner and observe closer.
Now, after only three days, Yelena knew Lei Ling's schedule down to the minute. Yelena knew which café she visited, which table she preferred, which construction sites she inspected personally. She knew the route she walked, the elevator she used, the security system in her building.
She also knew about the SHIELD agent.
Agent Chen Wei. The guy that Fury sent to watch the IC. Agent Chen Wei was in his mid-thirties and officially a corporate liaison for international infrastructure projects. Unofficially assigned to Lei Ling six months ago. Yelena doubted he was aware of why he was watching her, only that he had to.
He was already taken care of.
At 6:00 p.m., Chen Wei entered the same café Lei Ling visited in the mornings, alone this time. He ordered tea. Sat near the back. Checked his phone too often. See, he had her whole apartment bugged. He was secretly listening to her and keeping tabs on her.
Which was when Yelena entered. Different clothes, different posture, different face, subtly altered with makeup and tension held wrong in the jaw. She ordered coffee, waited, then "accidentally" bumped his table as she passed.
"Oh—sorry," Yelena said in Mandarin, flustered.
"No problem," the secret agent replied automatically.
She smiled, reached to steady his cup.
Her fingers brushed the rim.
That was all it took.
The compound dissolved quickly, odorless, tasteless. By the time Chen finished his tea, his eyelids were heavy. He paid, stood, staggered slightly, and left.
Yelena watched him go, then finished her coffee.
By 7:20 p.m., Chen Wei was unconscious in the back seat of his own car, parked in an underground garage three levels below the street. Yelena secured him quickly, efficiently. He would wake in twelve hours with a headache and no memory of the evening.
Which brought them to know. Yelena let out a sigh. She was pretending to be a cleaner with no papers or anything. Just confidence. "It'll be in and out," she murmured.
By 9:30 p.m., Lei Ling turned off her lights.
She brushed her teeth, changed into sleep clothes, and her alarm.
At 9:58 p.m., she slid into bed.
At 10:01 p.m., the lights went out completely.
At 10:03 p.m., Lei Ling became aware that she was not alone.
She sat bolt upright—but didn't scream.
A shadow detached itself from the corner of the room, solidifying into a woman seated casually in her armchair, legs crossed. She was damn flexible, that was what it was, to the point of seeming superhuman to the sleepy woman. The city lights filtered faintly through the curtains, outlining blonde hair and cold eyes.
"Good evening," Yelena said softly, in fluent Mandarin. "Sorry to do this so late."
Lei Ling's heart hammered, but her voice remained steady. "Who are you?"
"Someone with questions," Yelena replied. "And not much time."
Lei Ling glanced toward the door. Toward the panic button by her bed.
Yelena smiled. "Don't. Your security detail is asleep. Literally."
Silence stretched.
Lei Ling inhaled slowly. "If this is about money—"
"It's not."
"If it's about a building—"
"It is," Yelena said. "Just not one you can point to on a map. I believe you worked with SHIELD before?"
That finally cracked something. Lei Ling's gaze sharpened. "You…you shouldn't be here."
"No," Yelena agreed. "I shouldn't." She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "I want you to tell me about that little offshore facility you helped design."
Lei Ling said nothing.
Yelena's voice hardened. "I know you didn't oversee the whole thing. I know you were given partial schematics. I know you were told it was for 'containment' and 'research.'"
Ling Lei wanted to stand. She suddenly realized her wrists were cuffed to her own bed.
"I also know you're smart enough to remember details you weren't supposed to."
Lei Ling swallowed.
"You can talk," Yelena said calmly. "Or we can make this unpleasant. I don't enjoy that part, but I'm very good at it."
The room felt smaller. The city outside kept breathing, oblivious.
Finally, Lei Ling spoke. "…What do you want to know?"
***
'The interrogation is underway.'
Both were happening at the same time. He breathed out. Was there guilt? Yes. Yes, there was. He didn't want to threaten these people. They were good people. But...
Killing Pepper Potts and Harry Osborn...attacking Luke Cage and kidnapping his girlfriend... having technology like that...
The Auction Master and his people had points. But still, Felix couldn't trust him. He couldn't. He had to do this. His resolve was firm. It had to be done. There was no turning back. Not anymore.
Felix sat alone in the back room of the abandoned café, the only light coming from a battered laptop balanced on a milk crate and a string of temporary LEDs taped along the wall. The boards were still standing and looking crazy.
Felicia Hardy lounged in a chair near the door, boots propped against the wall, arms folded behind her head. She looked bored.
"So," Felicia said, eyes half-lidded. "Are you sure your little pills will work?"
Assuming the interrogation was successful, what would stop Walter and Ling from telling the police? Absolutely nothing, unless he went too far, which was not what he wanted. Luckily, he had a solution: the Fragment Drug. It was what he used on Pepper Potts to make her forget about their night together. He used a Truth Drug on top of it, but the issue with that drug was that it required the person who took it to either be weak-minded. With Pepper, he was able to do it because he had sex with her. That made her sore and weak and relaxed.
In interrogation, unfortunately, that Truth Drug wouldn't work. But the memory fragment drug he slipped in afterward? That most certainly would.
"It will. Trust me," Felix replied. "I've run the simulation."
"Nice. Great." Felicia got up and bounced over to him, putting a hand on the back of his chair. "So…what's next? Sharon Carter?"
The laptop screen showed a grainy but clear feed from a bar camera: wide angle, mounted high in a corner. The time stamp blinked steadily in the corner. A few patrons drifted in and out of frame. Glasses were lifted. Someone laughed too loudly.
"She's there, so what are you waiting for?" Felicia asked.
Indeed, Sharon Carter sat at the bar, posture relaxed, back to the wall, one leg hooked casually around the stool. Felix and Felicia could tell from the way she held herself—balanced, contained, alert without tension—that Sharon already knew where every exit was.
Data streamed on the laptop indicating that she was Agent 13. Her history in SHIELD was impressive and very well-hidden. She had top-tier training and might be able to give Yelena trouble.
Felix leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees. The glow of the screen painted his face a muted blue-green.
"Not polite to make a girl waiting," Felicia joked.
"I know, I know. But still…"
He'd spent weeks pulling threads to find her. Not files—those had been scrubbed clean—but absences. Gaps where there should have been paperwork. Expense reports that vanished into unrelated departments. Travel authorizations that existed for exactly ninety seconds before being overwritten. Peggy Carter's death had cracked something open, just enough for Sharon to be reassigned, "released," forgotten by the official machine while still very much being watched by it.
He could pill the two SHIELD agents watching her with Felicia's help. But that was too risky. He needed Felicia to act ASAP. The moment they learned the identity of the project manager, she was going to pounce. Leave the state, the country, whatever, wherever.
That meant Felix had to do something that the SHIELD agents would accept and shrug at while secretly coaxing information out of Sharon. Something he had gotten quite good at over the years now.
"I have to make this as natural as possible." He zoomed the camera in slightly. Sharon lifted her glass, took a slow sip, eyes unfocused in a way Felix recognized. Grief or exhaustion or both.
"Right, and you've been flirting for two nights straight," Felicia said. "And from my estimate, it's gone well. So just go and sleep with her tonight. You can do it."
Yep. With Sharon Carter, his goal was to sleep with her, then slip in that Truth Drug to get what he wanted.