No one really knew what was going on inside Agent Coulson's head. Perhaps in a misguided effort to redeem S.H.I.E.L.D.'s reputation, he allowed the hacker now known as Daisy Johnson to be filmed by civilians while using her powers. And American bystanders—unafraid even when bullets were flying within three meters—enthusiastically whipped out their phones to record the scene. A local town TV station had already interviewed Daisy and given her the nickname "Quake." Now she had her own fan posters, and AO3 even had fanfiction pairing her with Black Widow, Natasha Romanoff.
This was something Victoria Hand, head of Eternal City's intelligence division, simply couldn't understand. Intelligence work wasn't some flashy political campaign or superhero pageant. Winning public affection was utterly meaningless. In her eyes, S.H.I.E.L.D. had degenerated into a third-rate organization, not even worth closely monitoring. A group like that would self-destruct soon enough.
To be fair, the fanfiction wasn't bad—at least that's what Wanda Maximoff thought.
Even though the mission intel's supplemental files weren't essential, she still clicked the link. After all, being stuck on a private jet was boring, and she needed something to kill time. She had already reviewed the surveillance and civilian communication records compiled by the intel team regarding the Los Angeles area. Lately, mentions of the term "Ghost Rider" had spiked significantly. Based on video footage and comms data, the intelligence department had identified possible locations. Before recovering the Darkhold, Wanda—acting as Solomon's envoy—had to first assess the condition of the new Ghost Rider.
Through this, Wanda also learned about Johnny Blaze, the original Ghost Rider.
Honestly, when she read about Mephisto's earthly manifestation, she was shaken by how dangerous her mentor's past missions had been. But then she remembered Solomon had fought all sorts of divine avatars—even in the Battle of Finbowinter—and her nerves slowly settled into numbness. Compared to those, Ghost Rider now seemed like a minor threat. As usual, if the target didn't follow the rules, she would have to teach him a lesson—make him understand the authority of Kamar-Taj law. That was almost guaranteed. Newbies to the magical world always thought they were the strongest, most special beings alive. Wanda was prepared to use her confrontation with the new Ghost Rider as a warm-up for her real mission.
Solomon no longer concerned himself with his student's assignment. He had already given her the best weapons, and even backup support was in place. Unless she died, there was no reason the mission wouldn't succeed. He had also declined Natasha Romanoff's request to meet in New York, instead summoning her to Eternal City after returning from Kamar-Taj, where he handed over the full transcript of Nick Fury's interrogation.
"I thought the truth about the Winter Soldier was shocking enough," Natasha said with a hoarse voice, clearly displeased. "I didn't even know where Nick Fury was being held. Where did you capture him?"
"On a space station. He was with a bunch of aliens," Solomon replied. "Interested in interrogating extraterrestrials?"
"No thanks. I'm not like your girlfriend—I'm neither a sadist nor a masochist." Natasha gave a sidelong glance at the interrogation footage. The punishments inflicted on those aliens were brutal and inhumane, but she didn't raise much objection. "Besides, I've got my own mission."
Solomon understood her sour mood perfectly. "Let me guess. The Winter Soldier?"
"If you already know, why ask?" she snapped, baring her teeth like a feral cat. "I'm certain you're hiding intel from me."
"You can think that, but it's not due to distrust. The Winter Soldier is connected to another matter," Solomon said, meeting her glare. "I don't mind if you kill him."
The agent crossed her arms and tilted her head. "Is that the truth? And then?"
"But there are others also trying to find him—people who know what he knows. Eternal City isn't the only faction hunting him. So I can't offer you much help—unless you want us to carry out precision bombing in a populated area. You're already a step ahead thanks to our intel team, and you're one of the best agents out there. I'm sure you'll manage."
Stephanie ran into Natasha in the hallway and noticed the scowl on the woman's face. She watched the tight-leather-clad agent disappear around a corner, then stepped into Solomon's office.
"My lord, you're not planning to tell her about our domestic operation in the U.S.?" The Minister of Internal Affairs didn't need much to guess Natasha's real reason for coming. "She might actually be useful. N'Jadaka's work has been less than impressive. The people he's recruited are just low-level thugs—drug dealers and store robbers. Many are violent felons still under bail."
The fact that these criminals were roaming free outside prison was all thanks to the American justice system.
And this had absolutely nothing to do with so-called human rights. The U.S. justice system was, from top to bottom, monetized through criminalization. From the moment a person was incarcerated, they were charged fees—for beds, personal hygiene items, even medical care. If they couldn't afford it, they could "pay off" the debt with time served and prison labor. Private prisons profited from both government contracts and the inmates themselves. And then there was the additional revenue stream: selling goods made by prison labor.
Even after leaving prison, the fees didn't stop. Regardless of guilt, the court would impose litigation fees and other miscellaneous costs. Much of that money found its way into judges' pockets, which is why judges favored quick verdicts on petty crimes. Then came the bail bonds companies. These companies could loan money to the accused, oversee their probation, and even influence judicial outcomes. If a defendant refused the bond offer or couldn't pay, the judge could slap them with a contempt of court charge and throw them back in jail—thus restarting the fee cycle. To accelerate profits, private prisons often preferred taking in petty offenders and kicking out long-term felons. Those felons, desperate for release, would often agree to bond contracts just to get out.
That was the kind of manpower N'Jadaka had gathered. But their quality was so poor that Solomon didn't believe any of them could meaningfully contribute to the larger operation. N'Jadaka himself had once served time—otherwise, he never would've become a mercenary in another continent to begin with.
If he ever learned what Solomon thought of his efforts, he'd be furious. The Black Panther Party in the U.S. was no longer what it once was. The real leaders, those who had the capacity to challenge the entire system, had mostly been gunned down by the FBI. Today's leaders were either bought off or tools used by politicians to attract Black votes. When N'Jadaka reached out to them, the FBI followed immediately. If it weren't for Eternal City's global network of safehouses, his own tactical skills, and his connections to Wilson Fisk, he might've been arrested before his plan even started. Worse, the shipment of weapons might've been swallowed up by Fisk himself.
N'Jadaka sometimes missed his father's era. Back then, he was just a kid shooting hoops on a community court, but he remembered the days brimming with hope. That hope later transformed into a deeper hatred for Wakanda. He believed that if his father hadn't been murdered by blood relatives, the FBI never could've touched him, and his father's Black Panther movement would've succeeded.
"My father was the real Black Panther—not that fat pig sitting on Wakanda's throne," he had once declared during a debriefing in Eternal City. "I will continue his mission. I swear to the Boss—I will make it happen."
Stephanie ended the call and shook her head, clearly unimpressed by N'Jadaka. She made her disdain for him known to Solomon without holding back.
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