Paris in winter is still alive with movement. The streets brimmed with people despite the chill. Among them, a tall, graceful woman strode past without the slightest concern for the cold. Her long legs, accentuated by sheer stockings, drew more than a few stares.
On both sides of the street, Christmas trees stood decorated in sparkling lights, their colors warm in the grey afternoon.
Daniel sat at an outdoor café table, basking in the pale sun. He sipped his coffee—bitter, sweet, a little sharp—and let his eyes wander to the occasional striking figure walking past. A Parisian afternoon had its own charm.
Parisian women had always been bold—then and now. It was a subject that had meaning for Daniel, but one best left unspoken.
A sharp beep broke through his thoughts. A sleek motorcycle coasted to a stop in front of him. The rider—Elektra—wore a fitted black leather jacket and a glossy red helmet. She pulled it off, letting her black hair shake loose over her shoulders, and smiled.
"How about it?" she asked. "Rested enough?"
"If nothing else was going on, I could live like this forever," Daniel said, slipping a euro beneath his cup. "But fate rarely lets us sit still." He rose, stepped behind the bike, swung on, and wrapped his arms around her slender waist.
The engine's growl cut through the street noise, and the two vanished into the crowd.
Winter nights fall fast. Two hours later, Daniel—now dressed in a tailored suit—stepped up to the entrance of a high-end Paris nightclub with Elektra at his side. Cameras flashed as celebrities and socialites arrived; the press and paparazzi were out in force.
Inside, such places were the playground of diplomats, mid-level officials, celebrities, rich entrepreneurs, and international athletes. It was Christmas season—familiar names like Beckham and Cantona were in town. Everyone preferred Paris's milder winter to London's damp chill.
Few here recognized Daniel, and he preferred it that way. The couple took a quiet booth, speaking softly, drawing no attention.
On the surface, this was just another elite nightclub. But Daniel's senses told a different story. With a subtle weave of magic, he scanned not just the crowd, but the hidden levels beneath the floor.
This was one of Sebastian Shaw's lairs.
Most people knew the Hellfire Club's official headquarters in London. But Shaw's personal operations were far harder to track, especially with the Red Devil—his teleporting mutant enforcer—able to spirit him away at a moment's notice. It was almost impossible to pin Shaw down.
Almost.
Daniel hadn't found this place by accident. Emma Frost herself had pointed the way—indirectly. After the Svalbard base went silent, she sent investigators. What they found couldn't be hidden: the base had collapsed. Only one body remained—Whirlwind's. The implications were obvious.
Emma needed answers—at least for show. How had Shaw known about the base? Why was Whirlwind there? Where was everyone else? And who had done it?
She knew the truth better than anyone—no one "accidentally" discovered that base. Letting Shaw find it was her way of using someone else's knife. But appearances had to be maintained. Outwardly, she acted unaffected.
And if Emma Frost was in Paris now, Daniel would know. He didn't need to tail her personally—watching a trusted lieutenant was enough. The moment she arrived, he locked her location himself.
At this very moment, she was somewhere beneath his feet in this same building, waiting, needing an explanation. Even if it was just for appearances.
Her presence here meant Shaw would have to return quickly.
In the Hellfire Club's hierarchy, two kings, two queens, two rooks, and two bishops held the major positions. But vacancies were common—historical blood feuds and power plays had stripped several roles empty. The White King, White Rook, and White Bishop seats were unfilled.
Shaw held the Black King's throne. Emma Frost was the White Queen. Other black pieces were in place but closely guarded secrets. Even within the club, no one outside the inner circle knew all their names.
Shaw's strength was considerable, but not enough to dominate everyone. Alliances were essential. His longest bond had been with the Black Queen, and with the Black Rook and Black Bishop—until a vicious power struggle left the Rook dead and the Bishop badly injured. Shaw's grip on the club weakened. Attempts to pull Emma completely under his control had only driven her further out of reach.
Daniel's idle scanning of the room was interrupted by a sudden wave of attention. Bunny girls—nearly twenty of them—flowed through the club's main door, dressed in little more than lingerie, stockings, and the trademark rabbit ears.
All heads turned. The group swept toward a deep VIP booth where the most powerful men in the room sat, taking their places beside them.
Elektra, noting Daniel's gaze, leaned toward his ear with a teasing whisper. "If you like that look, we could… pick up a few sets later."
"Not what I'm looking at," Daniel murmured, squeezing her hand as he leaned in close. "I just saw someone I know. Someone who shouldn't be here."
Elektra straightened in curiosity, trying to catch a glimpse. But the women were already seated, blocking clear views.
"You've heard of her," Daniel said quietly. "Natasha Romanoff. The Black Widow—from the Avengers."
Recognition lit Elektra's face. "What is she doing here?" In her mind, Black Widow was an icon—an ordinary woman who fought beside gods and monsters during the battle in Manhattan. Women worldwide had admired her courage.
Daniel didn't correct her image of Natasha. What Elektra didn't know was that the so-called young beauty was nearly ninety years old, sustained by a flawed super-soldier serum. Without regular doses, her body would rapidly age.
It wasn't Natasha's age that disinterested him—but her build. Every woman close to Daniel—Elektra, Betty Ross, Felicia Hardy, Gwen Stacy—stood well over average height. Even in heels, Black Widow barely scraped past 1.7 meters. Mature, attractive—yes. But not his type.
Still… seeing her dressed in nothing but lingerie and bunny ears softened his opinion enough for him to take a second look.
Which led him to the question: why was the Black Widow in Sebastian Shaw's nightclub?
"Don't worry about her," Daniel said finally. "With me here, she can't see us. She won't interfere with our mission, and we won't interfere with hers. Drink up."
He lifted a glass from the table, touching it to Elektra's lips, and she drank.
When Daniel glanced back, Natasha was gone.
He didn't pursue her with magic. Another active player in the building was dangerous—it could alert Emma Frost. And Emma Frost was… formidable. As White Queen of the Hellfire Club and CEO of Norwich Energy, her power was near-legendary. Not quite on Shaw's level, but close enough that underestimating her would be foolish.
Natasha's presence here could mean only one thing: Nick Fury had taken an interest. Recent events must have painted Shaw as a priority for S.H.I.E.L.D.'s attention. How Fury had traced this location was anyone's guess.
The "spymaster" title wasn't for show.
And now, Shaw's world was tightening from all sides—Magneto unsolved, Emma demanding explanations, Fury's agents closing in… and Daniel, watching from the shadows.
Some people are just born under an unlucky star.