Outside the Paris nightclub, an off-road vehicle rolled to an abrupt stop.
From the passenger seat stepped a compact, bespectacled man in his fifties. He wore a simple black jacket, but his brisk stride spoke of purpose. Behind him, several men in black suits followed like shadows.
Each one wore dark glasses despite the winter night, their faces set in rigid lines. Their scanning gazes darted across the street and crowd, hands resting lightly at their waists—over the invisible bulge that told anyone smart enough exactly what lay there.
A line of club security blocked the entrance. Even these imposing bodyguards, used to intimidation, didn't flinch at the suited men. They simply extended a hand for invitations. Rules were rules—no invite, no entry.
Of course, this group didn't carry invitations. Men like them usually didn't need them—the steel at their sides was pass enough. But before things could escalate, the man with glasses lifted a hand, halting his men. Calmly, he pulled out a phone.
Not an ordinary one. This was a satellite phone—military grade, secure, and encrypted. In the heart of Paris.
He dialed, spoke briefly, then passed the device to a guard. The bouncer's tone changed immediately after speaking to whoever was on the other end. He stepped aside, waving the group in, his face still stone-cold but the resistance gone.
The bespectacled man's mouth quirked with faint approval at their professionalism, and he strode through the doors.
To the queue outside, it was a small spectacle. Whispers began:
A politician? A military officer? Something from the EU? NATO?
No one knew for sure.
In the subterranean levels of the club, a wisp of scarlet mist shimmered into form. A heartbeat later, Sebastian Shaw and the Red Devil stood across from Emma Frost.
Upstairs, Daniel didn't even register the man with glasses. In this crowd of high society, he drew little attention—nothing to stand out against the diplomats, celebrities, and power brokers moving through the club.
In the secret room below, Shaw spoke only a handful of words before Emma's expression shifted. She regarded him for a long moment, then turned, activating the hidden door to emerge into the main floor.
Daniel's eyes tracked her immediately.
The handful in the club who knew what she really was—the White Queen of the Hellfire Club, CEO of Norwich Energy—also understood what her reaction meant. Whoever she was moving to greet was no ordinary guest.
Even over the music, Daniel should have been able to catch their voices. But as he focused, he heard nothing. Emma had wrapped the exchange in psychic cover. That alone told him the man's importance.
Interest piqued, Daniel slid from his booth without a sound. Across the club, his double illusion carried on teasing Elektra as if nothing had changed.
He moved deeper inside, down a quiet corridor lined with private boxes. Every door here was password-protected, codes changed at the guest's whim. Inside, privacy and security were absolute.
Emma led the man with glasses into one such box, closing the door behind her.
Breaking in wasn't difficult for Daniel—magical workarounds were trivial for him. But a brute intrusion could trigger every psychic tripwire Emma might have layered on the door. He had no interest in announcing himself to her.
Fortunately, someone else had already reached the door: Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow.
Daniel's curiosity about her earlier presence now had an answer. This man was her target.
She was fast—her fingers flew across a small, sleek device. In seconds, the lock clicked open.
Inside, four black-suited bodyguards turned sharply, eyes narrowing. For half a heartbeat, all were still—hands hovering near their weapons.
Then Natasha moved first.
Electric arcs cracked from her wrist-mounted stingers, slamming into each guard before they could draw. They went down without so much as a drawn breath—twitching once, then still. The New York War had clearly inspired S.H.I.E.L.D. to upgrade its toys, and the Widow knew how to use them.
Daniel noted, with some private satisfaction, that even without his help she'd have dispatched them. Still, he'd already cloaked her in a weave of light-distortion—enough to foil any hidden eyes in the next stage of her intrusion.
A quick search of the fallen men turned up their credentials. Natasha's eyes flicked to the emblems—U.S. government officers attached to a classified unit. Daniel recognized them instantly; he had one just like it tucked away.
She shoved the IDs back into their jackets and moved quickly to search the room itself.
The man with glasses and Emma were gone—spirited deeper into the club. That meant there had to be a secondary route, hidden here.
It didn't take Natasha long to find it.
She settled on the sofa, eyes on the centerpiece—a roulette-style table. Her fingers pressed the exact centre. With a soft click, there was a subtle rumble as the curved sofa pivoted, rotating a perfect 180 degrees.
When it stopped, the wall was gone, replaced by the mouth of a staircase spiralling downward.
Without pause, Natasha slipped inside, boots near-silent on the steps.
Daniel's invisibility spell wrapped around her like a second skin, bending light enough to render her a shimmer in the air—imperceptible to the human eye. Useful, given that the walls on either side of the descent hid defenders. They wouldn't necessarily attack; they were spotters, meant to silently signal any unapproved entry.
Past them, the stairs wound down a dozen meters, ending in what looked like a scholarly study—bookshelves lining the walls, filled with rare tomes and documents, some unobtainable even to S.H.I.E.L.D.
But the room was only a facade.
Emma, Shaw, and the man in glasses were nowhere in sight. All that was here was the next hidden mechanism, waiting to be found.