In the darkness of his bedroom, Klaus Gordon—manager of a discreet Swiss bank—lay in the warmth of a generous bed. Even in sleep, his brows stayed furrowed, as though the day's events still gnawed at his mind.
Suddenly, he jolted upright, gasping as if waking from a nightmare.
Something felt wrong.
He turned toward the window. It was wide open, letting in an icy wind that whipped the curtains and chilled the room to its bones. He could've sworn he'd closed it.
Moving slowly, Klaus slid a hand under his pillow, fingers brushing the grip of his pistol. But before he could act, a voice cut through the cold air.
"Ah-ah… I wouldn't do that. One wrong move, and things could end badly—for both of us."
Klaus twisted toward the sound. A figure stepped away from the shadows near the door—a tall man in a black suit and overcoat, wearing a bowler hat and a smooth black mask that hid his face.
The figure came closer, stepping into a strip of moonlight. Klaus's instincts screamed danger. He yanked the pistol from under the pillow and pulled the trigger.
Click. Click. Click.
Nothing. No shot. Just the hollow scrape of mechanics.
Confused and unsettled, Klaus stared down at the gun. It had been loaded. He'd topped off the magazine before bed.
The masked man strolled over casually and plucked the pistol from his hands.
"If you handled guns often, you'd know the weight difference between a loaded and an empty one," the intruder said, ejecting the magazine and holding it up for Klaus to see. Through the moonlight, it was clear—empty.
The man opened his other hand.
Six bullets lay in his palm.
Klaus's stomach tightened. The realization hit—his bullets had been removed while he slept. This man had been inches from him, and he hadn't noticed.
The masked stranger calmly reloaded the pistol, slid the magazine home, and placed the weapon back under Klaus's pillow with deliberate care. Then he sat down on the edge of the bed, clapping his hands lightly as though pleased with himself.
"Now," he said, "we can talk in peace, don't you think?"
A shiver went through Klaus's body. His teeth almost chattered.
Watching, the intruder seemed satisfied. His tone shifted—sharp, direct.
"Tell me—what exactly did Magneto get from you about Sebastian Shaw? Where is Shaw now? Can Magneto find him? Don't bother claiming you don't know."
"Argentina," Klaus blurted, his voice trembling. "Willaxel Hotel. Shaw's in Argentina. Magneto's gone there too."
"Argentina?" The masked man tilted his head, his voice dripping with mock surprise. "I thought you'd tell me somewhere in the United States. So you want me running around South America like Magneto, is that it? Maybe you've decided you don't want to live."
He flipped his hand over, and a golden bullet appeared between his fingers. He pointed it at Klaus's forehead like it was the only thing in the world.
Klaus froze, his eyes fixed on the bullet. A cold sweat slid down his spine. The world had changed—mutants, superhumans, and killers from every side were walking freely, rewriting the rules. Just days ago, Magneto had stood right here, and now, this masked stranger stood in his bedroom as if it were nothing.
Klaus had tripled his security since Magneto's visit—more guards, tighter patrols—but it meant nothing. This man had walked in silently and could just as easily end his life.
Desperation made him raise a hand, gently pushing the bullet aside.
"I don't know exactly where Shaw is now," Klaus insisted. "But he did live in Argentina for a time. If you start there, you'll find traces. I'm not lying."
"Oh?" The man's gaze sharpened behind the mask. "Then tell me—how did you let Shaw know that Magneto had come for you? Don't tell me you didn't contact him at all."
Klaus's breath caught. How could this man know what he hadn't told anyone?
The golden bullet appeared again, gleaming under the dim light. Klaus shut his eyes, panic surging.
"I just sent him a text from an anonymous phone," he blurted quickly. "That's all."
"Much better," the masked man said. The bullet between his fingers vanished. He'd broken Klaus Gordon's last line of resistance—and now had the one thread needed to reach Shaw: the anonymous number.
But there'd be one chance only. Once Shaw got suspicious, the Red Devil could whisk him away before any trap could be sprung.
"I need you to do something for me," the masked man continued. "Call your contact at Union Bank of Switzerland. Tell them you'll be picking up certain items tomorrow."
Klaus hurriedly agreed.
Switzerland had hundreds of banks—338, to be exact—but two giants dominated the field: Union Bank of Switzerland (UBS) and Credit Suisse. Together they controlled most of the nation's banking power. Klaus's own bank was small by comparison, one of the other 336. Its survival in the modern day came from secrecy and shadow trades—including handling deposits for remnants of the Third Reich.
Every Swiss bank had skeletons in its vault—the only question was whether anyone caught sight of them.
But the items Daniel wanted had nothing to do with Klaus's bank. They were linked to an old legacy from one of the German Empire's most formidable figures—treasures that had been entrusted to somewhere far more secure.
The royal family that once held them would never risk storing such valuables in a lesser bank that could disappear overnight. They placed them with UBS, a fortress among financial institutions—trusted by royals across the world. If UBS ever betrayed its clients, that knowledge would spread through every royal network within days.
Klaus, deeply connected in Swiss finance, knew exactly how to make a discreet withdrawal without attracting unwanted attention.
Daniel's real concern wasn't bank clerks—it was the eyes of S.H.I.E.L.D., or any other agency that might notice. Using Klaus was perfect—especially since he already served Shaw. Whether or not the retrieval succeeded, Shaw would be tied to it, pushing him one step closer to his downfall.
The next day, things went smoother than Daniel anticipated. Maybe time had buried the memory, or maybe Klaus's pull within UBS was stronger than expected—either way, the bank quietly released the sealed item.
Klaus walked out of the building with a black briefcase.
A flicker of motion, and the case in his hand became an identical one—Daniel's magic had switched them instantly. Klaus never noticed as he returned home, briefcase in hand, while Daniel melted into the crowd.
If anyone was watching Klaus, they were either unimportant or deliberately held back. Mossad agents, probably—the most persistent group still hunting Axis remnants. It was equally possible they were feeding their surveillance to Magneto. The connection between Israel's Mossad and the Brotherhood of Mutants was no secret.
The modern United States was full of influential Jews—politicians, financiers—able to walk into the White House and speak to presidents as equals. But even with that influence, they knew the truth: real political power rested with the Anglo-Saxon ruling class. And in a world where power meant survival, that meant the Jewish elite chased every advantage they could find.
Including nuclear weapons.
And to many of them, Magneto was a weapon on par with any nation's arsenal. Not just because he was Jewish, but because mutants represented evolution itself—and Magneto was their undisputed king.
In their eyes, that made him more than an ally.
He was a step toward becoming something more:
A new race, powerful enough to ensure their survival forever.