As Anqiluo made his way back to Hell's Kitchen—
Washington, D.C.Triskelion Headquarters.
Inside the director's office at the top floor, Nick Fury sat behind his desk, his expression dark.
"Hill," he said, eye fixed on his assistant, "you're telling me there was an explosion in Hell's Kitchen last night? That place is a war zone every day. Gunfights nonstop. It's practically Afghanistan. We've got bigger priorities—like building a response team for external threats. Not chasing down street-level gang violence."
Agent Hill didn't argue.
She handed him a tablet.
"I've already sent the full report," she said. "The energy output from the explosion was several times higher than standard TNT. This isn't normal."
Fury rubbed his temples, already annoyed.
He'd been focused on the Arctic situation lately.
He glanced at the data.
Then muttered under his breath.
"Motherf—"
He handed the tablet back.
"Fine. Have R&D keep digging. Once we know what caused it, I'll deal with it."
"Understood."
Hill turned to leave.
Then paused at the door.
"One more thing," she said. "Some members of the World Security Council aren't happy about restarting the Captain America program. Pressure's building. We need to move faster."
Fury gave a short nod.
No reply.
The council was divided.
Some didn't understand what was coming.
But Fury did.
Ever since Captain Marvel drove off that Kree warship—
He'd been preparing.
Hill might represent the council on paper.
But in practice, she was still a top-level agent.
She knew what mattered.
What she didn't know—
Was that they'd already located Captain America.
Fury kept that to himself.
He trusted no one.
Not even his superiors.
…
On the road back, Alexei kept talking.
Even without a response.
He talked about his childhood.
Losing his parents.
Sneaking into the country alone.
Getting beaten, surviving, climbing his way up through the gangs.
From nothing—
To where he was now.
He even explained how he met Victor Kane.
It was the kind of story that could fill a book.
Anqiluo said nothing.
But he understood.
No one was born a criminal.
Most people just ran out of options.
Still—
Understanding didn't mean agreeing.
Standing on the same side as an arms dealer?
That wasn't happening.
When Anqiluo returned to the church—
He stopped.
The yard.
The weeds were gone.
At least half of them.
The nine women were still working.
He hadn't expected this.
At all.
In his mind, they should have given up.
Complained.
Demanded to leave.
But instead—
They kept going.
What was driving them?
He walked over.
"You've done enough. You can stay. Stop."
The woman leading them looked up briefly.
"Got it," she said.
Then went back to work.
No one stopped.
Anqiluo noticed their hands.
Blistered.
Bleeding.
…Stubborn.
Even he wasn't sure he could've done the same.
He sighed and waved Alexei off.
The bus pulled away.
Inside the church, Anqiluo grabbed a beer from the kitchen and sat down.
Lit a cigar.
Waited.
When the women finally came in—
Their hands were still dripping blood.
The drops soaked into the carpet.
"Alright," Anqiluo said, finishing his drink and setting the bottle aside. "Introduce yourselves."
He didn't ask about their past.
Didn't need to.
People like this—
Either had nothing left…
Or had suffered enough to stop caring.
The leader stepped forward.
"Boss," she said. "You can call us One through Nine. I'm One."
She held his gaze.
"Our past doesn't matter. And you probably don't care."
One by one, the others spoke.
"I'm Two."
"I'm Three."
…
Up to Nine.
Anqiluo stared at them.
This wasn't normal.
These women hadn't even known each other before.
And now—
This?
If he hadn't rescued them himself, he might have thought they were a trained unit.
"…Fine," he said after a moment. "Do whatever you want."
He stood up.
"Rooms are upstairs. Plenty of space. I'm on the third floor. Don't come up unless you have a reason. If you want to leave, just go. No need to tell me."
He glanced at their clothes.
Then reached into his inventory.
Nine stacks of cash.
He set them down.
"Get new clothes. Salary's three thousand a month."
That was it.
He turned and headed upstairs.
He was done.
They weren't children.
They could take care of themselves.
And honestly—
He didn't want to deal with them.
Calling themselves numbers like that…
It was unsettling.