Nick Fury hated surprises.
Not the theatrical kind—aliens falling from the sky, gods with hammers, men who refused to stay dead. Those had patterns. Tells. Escalation curves.
No.
He hated cheap surprises.
The kind that didn't make sense.
He stood in the dimly lit briefing room beneath the Triskelion, the lights low by preference rather than necessity. One eye burned faintly from an old injury—old enough that it wasn't supposed to feel like anything anymore.
Yet today, it itched.
In his left hand, Fury held a syringe.
Clear casing. No branding. No serial number.
A thin tube ran from the base of the syringe to a transparent IV pack hanging from a portable stand beside the table. The liquid inside was faintly luminescent—not glowing, not radioactive, just… wrong. Like it didn't belong to any pharmaceutical family he recognized.
Fury turned it slowly between his fingers.
"What the fuck is this, Hill?"
Maria Hill didn't flinch.
She stood straight-backed across the table, tablet under one arm, jaw set tight enough that Fury knew she'd already slept badly because of this.
"A Stimpack, apparently, sir," she said evenly.
"Apparently," Fury echoed flatly.
"Our scientists tested it," Hill continued. "Extensively. Double-blind. Triple verification. No contaminants, no nanotech, no gamma signature, no magic residue we can detect. It does exactly what it claims."
Fury's eye flicked back to the syringe.
"And what does it claim?"
Hill tapped her tablet, projecting a series of clips onto the wall display.
Gunshot wounds sealing in seconds.
Shattered bones knitting together with sickening speed.
A man blinking rapidly—then crying as vision returned to his eyes.
A woman with second-degree burns laughing hysterically as the pain vanished.
"Heals wounds rapidly," Hill said. "Boosts adrenaline. Restores nerve function. Temporary reversal of blindness, paralysis, shock. In minor cases—permanent."
Fury let out a slow breath.
"And the side effects?"
"Elevated heart rate for roughly five minutes. Mild hyperthermia. Temporary fatigue afterward. No addiction markers. No long-term cellular degradation."
"Bullshit," Fury muttered.
Hill didn't argue.
That worried him more.
Fury set the syringe down carefully on the table, as if it might explode out of spite.
"Hill," he said slowly, "how much do these things cost?"
Hill's mouth tightened.
"…Twenty dollars."
The room went quiet.
Fury stared at her.
Twenty.
Not two thousand.
Not experimental pricing.
Not black-market escalation.
Twenty.
Dollars.
"…Motherfucker," Fury said quietly.
The problem wasn't just the product.
It was the reaction.
Hill swiped to another set of data.
Social media feeds. Underground forums. Viral videos. Injury challenges—people deliberately hurting themselves for views, then healing on camera with the same clear syringe.
Hospitals flooded with confused doctors. Emergency rooms losing patients mid-treatment as wounds simply… vanished.
Black-market resellers failing because there was no scarcity.
No bottleneck.
No gatekeeper.
"They're everywhere," Hill said. "Everywhere and nowhere. Online storefronts appear, sell out, disappear. Payment clears instantly. Shipping is… untraceable. Warehouses empty themselves."
Fury rubbed his temple.
"And our attempts to shut it down?"
Hill exhaled.
"We already tried. Court injunctions. Digital takedowns. Regulatory pressure."
"And?"
"Someone cancels it immediately," Hill said. "Before the paperwork finishes loading."
Fury's eye narrowed.
"Someone."
Hill met his gaze.
"Every time."
The room felt smaller.
This wasn't a terrorist.
Not a rogue state.
Not even Stark-level arrogance.
This was infrastructure.
The door opened softly.
Fury didn't turn.
He didn't need to.
"I might have a suggestion," Alexander Pierce said smoothly.
Fury's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
"Funny," Fury said. "I don't remember asking."
Pierce stepped in anyway, immaculate as always, silver hair perfect, smile polite enough to pass as harmless.
"Then allow me to volunteer one," Pierce replied. "Director."
Pierce's eyes flicked to the syringe.
"A miracle," he said. "At wholesale pricing."
Hill's posture stiffened.
Fury folded his arms.
"Go on."
Pierce clasped his hands behind his back, pacing slowly.
"Instead of trying to stop it," Pierce said, "how about we purchase them all?"
Hill turned sharply.
"All of them?"
"As many as possible," Pierce corrected. "Every unit we can legally acquire. Divert supply. Study it. Replicate it."
Fury studied him carefully.
"Our agents die," Pierce continued calmly. "Often. In the field. In situations where evacuation isn't possible. A twenty-dollar solution to battlefield mortality would change the balance of global power."
Silence followed.
Fury hated how reasonable it sounded.
He hated it even more because it was true.
He glanced back at the syringe.
"Background checks," Fury said slowly. "Ownership. Funding. Shells."
Hill nodded. "Already started."
"Company name?"
Hill hesitated.
"…Starveil."
Fury snorted softly.
"Of course it is."
Pierce smiled faintly.
Fury turned back to the table, weighing it all.
Stopping this would cause riots.
Letting it run free would collapse medical economies.
Ignoring it would be criminal negligence.
He sighed.
"Fine," Fury said. "Authorize purchase. Quietly. No headlines."
Hill tapped her tablet. "How many?"
Fury's eye hardened.
"All of them."
Pierce inclined his head.
"I'll oversee the replication effort personally," he said. "We'll need a dedicated black-site lab."
Fury didn't respond immediately.
Instead, he reached out and picked up the syringe.
The Stimpack was cool to the touch.
Too light.
Too perfect.
"I'll keep one," Fury said.
Hill's eyes flicked to him.
"For… personal verification," Fury added dryly.
Pierce turned toward the door.
"Of course," he said. "I'll see to the arrangements."
As Pierce exited, Fury didn't notice the faintest shift in his expression.
Didn't hear the quiet command already being issued through encrypted channels.
Didn't see Hydra agents moving to replicate a miracle they didn't understand.
Fury stood alone for a moment.
Then, carefully, he injected the Stimpack into his arm.
There was a sharp sting.
Then—
Heat.
Not pain.
Heat that spread through his veins like a controlled burn.
His heartbeat thundered once.
Twice.
The ache in his eye vanished.
The scars in his body—old, stubborn ones—itched.
Fury sucked in a breath.
"…Damn," he muttered.
Five minutes later, it was over.
He sat down heavily.
Whatever Starveil was—
Whatever whoever ran it was—
They weren't a hero.
They weren't a villain.
They were something far worse.
A supplier.
And somewhere, out there, someone was selling miracles for twenty dollars a shot—
And canceling governments with a click.