He really deserved to die.
There are only two options in situations like this—pay the price or face judgment. And for Pierce, judgment had already come once. He was lucky enough to be spared then. He wouldn't be spared again.
The high-ranking admiral standing nearby cursed silently, his face stiff with tension. He quickly picked up the radio and contacted the Pentagon directly. He wasn't about to gamble the U.S. military's reputation—or his own life—on a confrontation with the Goddess of Judgment.
The soldiers who stood behind him, rifles in hand, awaited orders with barely concealed fear. But the command never came. Without the chief's approval, none of them dared to fire.
Captain America, standing just a few steps behind, noticed the hesitation in their eyes and slowly exhaled. "Looks like they're not going to open fire," he muttered to himself.
Iron Man, Falcon, and others nearby shared the same sentiment. A silent sigh of relief passed among them. But Director Fury stood in the back, his arms crossed, unreadable as always. It was as if he'd already foreseen how this standoff would play out.
"Pierce used to be the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D.," Fury finally said. "Many agents still hold loyalty to him, whether we like it or not."
Bella turned her gaze slightly, not even looking at him as she spoke.
"That has nothing to do with me. I found him—and I killed him."
The weight of those words slammed into the group like a hammer. Cold, absolute, and without a trace of remorse.
A chill ran down everyone's spine.
Tony Stark clicked his tongue softly and looked away. "Heavy-handed," he whispered.
Captain America didn't respond, but his expression said enough. Disapproval mixed with unease. Still, none of them moved to argue.
Bella didn't care about their reactions. She simply reached behind her back and unsheathed the Oath Sword, its dark metal gleaming ominously in the light. The edges of the blade shimmered faintly with a golden hue—power barely restrained beneath the surface.
She turned without another word and headed toward her parked black motorcycle.
Nobody followed her. Nobody stopped her. They only watched in silence as she mounted the bike, each step echoing with the weight of finality.
Before starting the engine, she turned back slightly and offered one final warning:
"Clean up your own mess. Don't make me come back."
Her voice was ice—cold, sharp, and unyielding.
With that, she revved the engine, and the motorcycle let out a low, growling roar. She turned toward Long Island, aiming to head back toward Manhattan. But as she rode only a few blocks, she found the street completely blocked off.
A blockade.
Dozens of soldiers stood shoulder to shoulder, their weapons trained on her.
They were ready for war.
Bella pulled the motorcycle to a halt, her expression darkening.
She scanned the crowd of soldiers, her golden eyes burning like embers.
Then she spoke—not loudly, but her voice carried across the air with terrifying clarity.
"Move... or die."
In an instant, golden tendrils of divine energy exploded from her body, swirling around her like a storm of light and power. The sheer pressure of her presence descended on the street like a weight of iron, crushing, suffocating.
The wind howled unnaturally, sweeping dust and debris into the air. The soldiers, eyes wide with fear, felt the breath of death wash over them. Some trembled. Some fought the instinct to run. But none lowered their weapons.
They were bound by duty. They couldn't retreat.
Even if they wanted to.
One soldier's hands shook on his rifle. Sweat dripped down his temple. Another had already started praying under his breath.
But before anyone made a move, the general's voice came through their comms.
"Stand down. Everyone, get out of the way."
It was like a dam had broken.
"Whew..." Several soldiers exhaled in unison, relief flooding their faces. They parted quickly, forming a path for Bella down the center of the street.
None of them dared look her in the eye.
They didn't know what she had done three days ago, but everyone knew about the Manhattan Bridge incident—a disaster that ended with dozens dead and no trace of the attackers left behind. Rumors had spread like wildfire.
Some said she'd killed a monster.
Others said she was the monster.
But either way, this wasn't someone they could handle. If things turned violent, the outcome wasn't even a question—they would die. She might not walk away either, but that wasn't their concern. They didn't want to be the sacrificial lambs.
With the sound of a deep growl, Bella's bike surged forward, a black streak tearing through the city. The roar of the engine echoed like thunder.
Behind her, Captain America watched in silence, his arms crossed. His brow was furrowed.
"I'm not saying Pierce didn't deserve punishment," he finally said. "But killing him like that—so publicly, and with so many witnesses—it was reckless."
"She's too brash," added Sam quietly.
Tony shook his head. "Maybe. Or maybe that's exactly what we need."
He turned toward them, his face grim.
"Don't forget, they tried to capture her. Pierce didn't want justice—he wanted control. Study her, dissect her, twist her into a tool. You think he'd stop with a prison cell?"
Tony's voice grew harder with each word.
"Think about it. If they got their hands on her—what do you think would happen? Brainwashing? Genetic dissection? Experiments? She wouldn't come back the same."
He glanced at Fury knowingly.
Fury remained stone-faced but didn't deny it.
Rogers' expression slowly shifted. The moral weight pressing on his shoulders started to feel hollow.
He took a long breath. "You're right."
"Damn right, I am," Tony said, though his tone wasn't smug. It was bitter.
The group stood in silence for a moment longer.
Then Fury spoke, voice low and unreadable. "I'm more concerned about what she said before leaving."
The others turned to him in confusion.
"What part?" Steve asked.
"She told us not to make her come back."
Fury's words were simple, but their meaning was heavy.
The threat wasn't subtle. If S.H.I.E.L.D—or anyone else—continued to operate like Pierce did, she would return. Not to warn. Not to negotiate. But to bring judgment.
Without another word, Fury turned and walked away.
The rest remained rooted to the spot, their thoughts tangled in uncertainty.
What was she, really?
A protector? An avenger? Or something far more dangerous?
One thing was certain.
If they didn't change the way they operated—if they didn't clean their own house—then the Goddess of Judgment would return.
And next time, she might not walk away peacefully.
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