In the White House courtyard, a cool breeze drifted through the corridors. The midday sun cast a warm glow across the grounds. Under the blue sky and white clouds, dozens of black SUVs lined the road. Agents in black suits and sunglasses stood like silent sentinels, eyes sweeping the surroundings, alert to any possible threat.
Ironically, they were guarding the greatest threat in the world.
Before the White House gates, a Rolls-Royce Phantom waited quietly. As the sun dipped westward, a lone figure stepped out from the grand entrance.
He had dazzling blond hair and crimson eyes, dressed in a pristine white suit—white as winter snow—standing in stark contrast to the surrounding agents.
This was the God of Light—Gilgamesh Odinson.
His temporary assistant, Maria Hill, hurried forward, respectfully opening the car door and guiding the deity inside.
Once Hill took her seat in the front, the convoy rolled out, a long black line merging onto the road.
"May I ask where you'd like to go?" Hill asked cautiously, careful not to overstep.
Gilgamesh gave her a brief glance. On Marvel Earth, if there was a place most notorious—almost mythic—it could only be Hell's Kitchen.
It was the birthplace of countless Marvel transmigrators, their default starting zone, and the cradle of New York's sin.
As a transmigrator, if you didn't start in Hell's Kitchen, could you even claim to be in the Marvel universe?
"Take me to Hell's Kitchen," Gilgamesh said, a faint spark of interest in his eyes.
Hill froze for a heartbeat, then quickly relayed the new route to the convoy and, at the same time, secretly reported the change to Nick Fury in writing.
Meanwhile, in Hell's Kitchen—
Military trucks and SUVs blocked the streets. Within a command vehicle, Nick Fury issued orders with a grave expression.
"Area Three is an industrial zone filled with underground factories, including several of Kingpin's drug labs. Rumlow—you'll lead the patrol there."
Rumlow, dressed in full tactical gear like a Navy SEAL, nodded immediately. But behind his crisp obedience was a flicker of confusion.
As the captain of Hydra's embedded strike team within S.H.I.E.L.D.—known in the underworld as Crossbones—Rumlow had survived too many life-and-death missions to count. Assassinations, retrieval of superhumans, covert operations; danger was routine.
Yet even with all that experience, today's mission left him utterly baffled.
Captain America… had betrayed them?
S.H.I.E.L.D., the FBI, and the military… were working together to hunt him down?
Had he drunk too much this morning?
What kind of absurd plot twist was this?
He wanted to ask his true "superiors" for guidance, but with Nick Fury right here, he didn't dare risk exposing himself. All he could do was follow orders like a machine.
Just as he stepped off the vehicle, Coulson called out.
"Wait, Rumlow. You'd better not act rashly."
Rumlow paused, turning back with a puzzled look.
Coulson didn't elaborate. Instead, he faced Fury directly.
"Sir, Hell's Kitchen is a tangled web of factions. It's been under gang control for years. A sudden incursion could trigger a chain reaction. And many of those gangs have ties to high-ranking officials. This operation could provoke political backlash."
"Well said," Fury replied, though his expression didn't soften. "But unavoidable. Even if the sky comes crashing down, nothing is more important than finding Rogers."
He was about to order Crossbones to resume the search when Coulson suddenly spoke up.
"Sir, you misunderstand me. I'm not suggesting we give up on finding the Captain. I'm asking you to try a different approach."
"A different approach? Such as?"
Sensing the director's hesitation, Coulson seized the moment. "As everyone knows, Hell's Kitchen is… not exactly a clean place. If the police or military get involved, they'll inevitably stir up a nest of hidden crimes. So instead, why don't we meet directly with the leaders of the local gangs and ask them to help us track down the Captain?"
"These people may be thugs, but their information networks are far more extensive than ours. Once they understand what we're after, if they want to avoid attracting official scrutiny, they'll go after Kingpin's remaining forces with everything they've got."
"And without his underlings to shield him, Captain America will eventually surface."
Nick Fury paused, considering the idea. It would prevent clashes between law enforcement and the gangs, and it would save a tremendous amount of manpower.
But there was one fatal flaw.
"If the gangs start searching for Rogers, won't news of his 'defection' spread instantly?"
Coulson fell silent. Their entire mission hinged on capturing Captain America quietly, before the situation exploded. If the matter became public, the U.S. government would take the hit—hard.
The room grew tense. Rumlow, unsure whether he should speak, simply stood at attention and waited.
Just then, Fury's phone buzzed sharply on the table, the sound echoing through the quiet room.
He snatched it up—only for his expression to darken even further. His face went stiff, swelling with rage like a bruised, purplish eggplant.
"Damn it! Of all times, that bastard chooses now?!" he exploded.
Coulson subtly leaned to glance at the screen. The message read:
"The God of Light is heading to Hell's Kitchen. Requesting instructions — Maria Hill."
"This… Director, he's not someone we can afford to provoke," Coulson said carefully.
"I know that!" Fury snapped, irritation and worry mixing in his tone. Before Captain Marvel returned to Earth, Gilgamesh was the one person Fury absolutely could not afford to offend.
If Gilgamesh decided to go on a killing spree, no one—not even the Avengers—could stop him.
Rogers had been the top priority, but with Gilgamesh suddenly making a move, the mission to capture Captain America had to be put on hold.
Heaven help him—if he didn't handle this 'ancestor' properly, he'd be in catastrophic trouble.
"Notify every gang leader in Hell's Kitchen," Fury ordered coldly. "Tell them to get here in twenty minutes. If anyone's late, I'll make sure they disappear from the face of the earth. Permanently."
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