Onboard the undisclosed S.H.I.E.L.D. command center, Director Maria Hill had watched the live satellite feed of the Brooklyn Bridge with a mixture of profound relief and professional dread.
The entity—now dubbed The Dawn Knight—had performed a rescue that defied all known conventional physics, cementing his status as a Category 7 existential variable. His sudden departure signaled the immediate return to his last known location.
"Agent Morse, status report! The target is disengaging from the bridge! He is accelerating vertically," Commander Hill's voice was sharp with urgency as she initiated the comms channel.
Agent Barbara Morse, the expert infiltration specialist, was deep inside Zhou Yi's sprawling Long Island villa, operating from the second-floor study. She had bypassed three layers of passive sensors, but the villa's atmosphere felt unnervingly clean, too quiet for such a technologically capable owner.
"Commander, the primary sweep is complete—nothing in the main structure. No obvious servers, no hot labs, and no immediate evidence of a suit fabrication facility. I found one highly suspicious energy conduit tracing down into the basement foundation. I need fifteen more minutes to breach the subterranean level!" Morse hissed back, her eyes fixed on the power routing schematic she'd pulled from a latent wireless signal.
"Negative, Agent. Time is out. The subject is no longer visible, indicating he is returning to ground zero. Mission is terminated. You have thirty seconds to clear your tracks and exfiltrate immediately!"
A familiar wave of professional frustration washed over Morse. She had been close, agonizingly close, to discovering the secret facility she knew existed. "Understood, Commander. I'm packing out now."
Morse worked with silent, practiced efficiency, sealing the thermal sensors, disengaging the micro-cameras, and using a specialized polymer spray to neutralize any potential residue she might have left on the door handles and keypad.
She vanished through the back perimeter, melding seamlessly into the wooded area adjacent to the property, just moments before the low hum of atmospheric re-entry resonated faintly overhead.
Zhou Yi, having deliberately landed in the deep waters of the adjacent bay and navigated the final stretch via a concealed underwater tunnel, emerged into the sterile silence of his underground research laboratory.
The fatigue of the controlled exertion—sustaining an RPG blast, executing a bloodless dismemberment, and arresting the kinetic energy of a full-sized school bus—settled heavily upon him.
"Medusa, initiation of armor retraction and external hardware removal sequence," Zhou Yi commanded.
The Alpha Nanometal VII flowed like cooling mercury, retracting from his limbs. Robotic arms extended from the overhead scaffolding, carefully disconnecting the larger, stabilizing components and the main power core, which still radiated residual heat.
As the last piece of plating detached, Zhou Yi ran a hand across his jaw, looking at the scattered pieces of the Dawn Type-1 suit.
"Medusa, we need to address the scale of the Dawn Type-1 suit. The bulky, fragmented nature of the hardware is becoming a strategic liability. I don't want to be constantly leaving behind a mountain of alien metal every time I deploy."
He paced before the holographic schematic of the suit. "Can the Alpha Nanometal be optimized for deeper compression? I need to carry the suit as a single, discreet item."
Medusa's synthetic voice maintained its neutral cadence, though her projection flared slightly with complex data streams. "Director, I must caution against this. While Alpha Nanometal VII possesses remarkable self-compression capabilities, achieving the level of discretion you desire will necessitate a substantial trade-off in structural integrity and energy shielding."
"Run the projection. Show me the metrics for maximum viable compression," Zhou Yi insisted, determined to achieve a practical, everyday solution.
Medusa projected a minimalist design—a sleek, relatively wide metallic bracelet—in front of Zhou Yi. Simultaneously, the main holographic display simulated multiple impact scenarios on this compressed form.
"Current calculations indicate that the maximum compression level that still allows for near-instantaneous deployment compresses the entire Dawn Type-1 mass to 0.00012 cubic meters—roughly the volume of two stacked large wristwatches," Medusa reported.
"However, this extreme density reduces the nanometal layer's thickness significantly. The armor's maximum kinetic absorption threshold drops to approximately 3,400 pounds of localized impact force. This is only one twenty-seventh of the suit's current capacity, rendering it vulnerable to military-grade sniper fire and high-caliber anti-material rounds."
"The defense drops that drastically for a factor of ten reduction in volume?" Zhou Yi frowned, annoyed by the exponential penalty.
"Precisely. Due to the absence of a pre-fabricated physical skeleton at that compression level, the majority of the nanomaterial must be fixed into a single containment mold—the bracelet. The other areas are merely thin, rapidly expanding layers of micro-material. The structural integrity is compromised until full deployment is achieved."
"File that research under Dawn Type-2. Design the containment mold to be a standard, relatively thick wristwatch—something easily dismissible in a corporate environment. Prioritize increasing the maximum compression factor and minimizing the defense drop in the next research cycle. Begin the fabrication of the Dawn Type-2 immediately," Zhou Yi concluded.
"Confirmed. Fabrication of Dawn Type-2 initiated. Expected completion time: fifteen hours."
Zhou Yi pushed open the heavy blast door that sealed the lab, plunging the subterranean space into darkness once more, leaving the steady, humming sounds of technological work echoing behind him.
The ground floor of Zhou Yi's villa was a stark aesthetic contrast to the chrome and neon of the lab below. It was decorated in the classic, almost stately style he preferred: rich, dark wood panels, robust brown leather sofas flanking a stone fireplace, and an antique solid wood bar—a reflection of his quiet appreciation for tradition and privacy.
This was his sanctuary, a deliberate rejection of the sterile, automated minimalism favored by tech eccentrics like Tony Stark. Zhou Yi valued the ritual of daily life, the tactile feeling of reality, and preferred handling his own chores to delegating them to an AI.
He glanced at the grandfather clock in the hall. It was 4:20 PM. Time to eat. A powerful, unshakeable craving took hold of him—he hadn't had proper, home-made dumplings since his return.
He walked into the kitchen, pulled open the refrigerator, and slammed it shut with a look of extreme displeasure. He had forgotten to restock. Aside from a lone, questionable container of leftover takeout and a half-eaten block of cheese, the fridge was barren. The sporadic cleaning service he employed didn't handle provisioning.
"A heinous oversight," Zhou Yi muttered, his culinary plans momentarily derailed. His obsessive-compulsive need for the specific flavor of home-made food took precedence over all other matters. Dumplings it was, requiring a full supply run.
He retrieved his keys, intending to take his daily driver—a subtly armored Cadillac Escalade—from the massive, multi-bay garage.
As he approached the car, his movements halted. He didn't need Medusa to tell him what was wrong; his inherent hyper-awareness and superhuman visual acuity detected the subtle disruption in his environment. While the garage looked clean, the fine layer of ambient dust settling on the cars was uneven.
A section of dust on the hood of his Lamborghini was thicker than the corresponding section on his Bugatti, yet both had been cleaned by the same service days earlier. A faint, almost imperceptible smudge marred the pristine seal around the main garage door.
Someone had been here. Someone had been inside.
Zhou Yi's protective instincts flared—not with anger, but with cold, calculating territoriality. The violation of his private space was an unacceptable security risk. He didn't need surveillance logs; he only needed to scan the perimeter.
He activated his passive super-vision. Concrete walls, metal fences, and the canvas tarps covering construction equipment were transparent to his perception, revealing the organic, human signatures concealed beyond. He immediately spotted the ambush—six distinct, heavily armed individuals positioned in three teams, surrounding the villa perimeter in a layered approach.
The most conspicuous target, however, was a beige sedan parked a hundred meters down the road, partially obscured by a stand of trees. Inside, Agent Barbara Morse was hunched over, meticulously updating her digital maps with the topographical data of the villa grounds, still attempting to process her failed mission.
Zhou Yi smiled, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. They were professionals, but they were still predictable. He opened the garage door, his Cadillac idling to life, and drove purposefully toward the most obvious stakeout car on the street.
Zhou Yi pulled the massive SUV alongside the sedan. He killed the engine, stepped out, and approached Agent Morse's window. He rapped his gauntleted knuckles against the glass, the sound sharp and demanding.
Morse, startled, smoothly rolled the window down, her face immediately adopting the blank, professional mask of an innocent civilian.
"Ma'am, with all due respect, I must address you directly," Zhou Yi began, his voice calm but authoritative. "You are the one who intruded into my private residence earlier this afternoon, aren't you?" He didn't ask; he stated a conclusion.
Morse managed a strained, professional smile. "I believe this gentleman has the wrong car. Is it appropriate to initiate conversation with a lady with such baseless and frankly, rather peculiar, accusations?"
"I admire the dedication to the cover, Agent Morse," Zhou Yi continued, entirely ignoring her deflection.
"But the façade is unnecessary. Tell me, who authorized your insertion? Was it the Directorate of Central Intelligence, or the Federal Bureau of Investigation? No, your gear is too advanced, and your deployment too organized. I believe the name I'm looking for is that Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division—S.H.I.E.L.D., or whatever acronym you hide behind."
Morse's composure faltered only slightly—a momentary widening of the eyes—but she held her ground. "Sir, I assure you, I am merely lost. Your attempts to play some elaborate espionage fantasy are quite dated. Perhaps you should find a more constructive hobby than harassing strangers."
Zhou Yi offered a faint, almost dismissive smile. He extended his armored hand toward her ear. Morse instinctively flinched, but she was too late. She felt a brief, nearly imperceptible puff of warm air, and then, a miniature, highly sophisticated earpiece communication device was resting delicately in Zhou Yi's massive palm.
"This, I presume, is your connection to the 'sky men'—your command center in the clouds," Zhou Yi said, crushing the delicate electronics with two fingers.
"I intercepted your frequency. Now that the pleasantries are over: you and the six hidden friends surrounding my property are wasting time. You have compromised my home. That is an unacceptable violation of my territory."
Morse sighed, the fight going out of her eyes. "My mission failed. I will not provide operational details. You clearly possess enhanced capabilities beyond our current threat matrix."
"I do not require operational details, nor do I require assurances of your non-cooperation," Zhou Yi countered. He placed his hand on the window beside her head. With an eerie, near-silent display of power, he exerted a controlled pressure.
The heavy, multi-layered car window pulverized instantly, disintegrating into a fine, sparkling dust that settled harmlessly on the seat. The sheer, effortless exertion of kinetic force was chilling.
"I only require one thing: obedience," Zhou Yi said, his voice dropping to a low growl. "I do not want anyone ruining my day, and certainly not my dinner plans. Get out of the car. You're coming with me."
Barbara Morse, a highly trained operative accustomed to resisting physical intimidation, wisely chose compliance. She stepped out of the car, her mind reeling—she was abducted, not by force, but by a sudden, terrifying demonstration of absolute power.
Zhou Yi simply opened the passenger door of his Cadillac. "Get in. You're driving me to the grocery store first."
Zhou Yi drove toward the city, dictating a culinary requisition list that only further destabilized Agent Morse's grip on reality.
"Here is the list for the main course. I need twenty kilos of prime ribeye beef, cut from the short rib, preferably grass-fed. Four large, fresh French Blue Lobsters, live, if possible. At least a kilogram of New Zealand crayfish, and two dozen the freshest, best-quality eggs available. Finally, I require a very large whole sea bass. You can supplement this with any expensive, fresh produce you deem worthy, so long as it's not pre-packaged. I have a rather specific craving tonight,"
Zhou Yi instructed, pulling into the parking lot of a high-end, international market.
Morse stared at him, dumbfounded. Forced interrogation, restraints, or even immediate execution were all within the realm of possibility for a covert agent who had just been caught. Running errands for a supercar-driving, bulletproof entity was not.
"You're… you're having me buy your groceries?" she managed, unable to keep the disbelief from her voice. "This is a strange choice for a hostile detainment."
"Is it, Agent?" Zhou Yi raised an eyebrow. "It tells you everything you need to know. Your life is no longer a crisis for me; it is an inconvenience to be managed. Get moving. I assume S.H.I.E.L.D. compensates its agents well enough to cover a decent grocery bill. Don't waste time."
Swallowing her pride and her immense confusion, Morse got out, retrieved her S.H.I.E.L.D.-issued emergency credit card, and walked into the market, buying what amounted to a massive, several-thousand-dollar haul of premium ingredients, all under the remote, bewildered supervision of Commander Hill and the silent S.H.I.E.L.D. agents who were now ordered to observe and report, not intervene.
Zhou Yi watched her load the massive quantities of food into the trunk. He patted the side of the car, and when Morse turned back, he offered his final, chilling advice.
"Listen carefully, Agent. I know you're running mental escape scenarios and waiting for extraction. But I assure you, your organization cannot reach you, and your attempts to flee will only result in greater embarrassment for everyone involved. I suggest you contact your superiors right now—let them understand the parameters of your current situation. You will be released when I decide you are no longer a liability. For now, calm yourself."
He then drove away, leaving Morse standing by the overflowing trunk, utterly defeated by the power of his casual command.
Zhou Yi's next destination, however, was in stark contrast to the high-end international market. He drove several blocks into an older, less polished section of the city, pulling up to a small, brightly lit store with a large sign reading: Mr. Liu's Authentic Provisions.
The small supermarket, run by a two-generation Chinese family, specialized in hard-to-find imported sauces, unique ingredients, and, crucially, rare fresh vegetables grown on their private farm upstate.
He entered the store, nodding to the young woman running the register—a Chinese high school student, likely working a part-time job to support her family or studies. Zhou Yi was all business, but this time, the focus was cultural.
He spent the next twenty-five minutes meticulously selecting ingredients: Sichuan bamboo shoots, translucent tree mushrooms, earthy sweet potatoes, pale white radishes, and prized matsutake and monkey head mushrooms—all high-quality produce rarely found in American markets.
He secured the necessary staples: a specific brand of rice, fresh egg noodles, high-grade soy sauce, sweet bean paste, and fermented bean paste—the very soul of the dumplings he craved. Finally, he purchased two large, whole, Chinese heritage chickens, specifically for a rich soup stock.
When he finally emerged, carrying two bulging paper bags, he saw the Cadillac parked across the street. Barbara Morse was waiting there, her arms crossed, looking cold, resigned, and utterly ridiculous as the personal shopper for the most powerful entity in New York. The hour of her humiliating compliance was up, and she hadn't moved an inch.
The stage is set for a very awkward and illuminating dinner. How do you think Zhou Yi will use this captive time to learn about S.H.I.E.L.D.'s capabilities, and what will Agent Morse's strategy be for her own safety?