The smuggler didn't notice the coffee shifting unnaturally in Lock's cup. He leaned in, threw a thick arm around Lock's shoulder, and laughed.
"Hahaha, c'mon, Oriental, smile a little! You're doing pretty well now. Should be thanking me—after all, I'm the one who got you into this country."
He grinned, yellow teeth flashing. "What, still brooding over those two bucks? Business is business. In our world, everyone survives on ability. Be broad-minded. I just brought in a new batch of goods—black, white, and even Orientals. Want to take your pick? Buy one, get one free. We could fly high together."
He punctuated the sleazy joke with an exaggerated wink.
The moment Lock heard "Orientals," the coffee stilled, surface rippling unnaturally. His tone sharpened.
"Where are they from?"
The smuggler smirked knowingly. "America's the land of opportunity. People crawl across oceans just for a chance to make a fortune. We're in the right business—we always find good stock. You know how it is…"
Lock's eyes darkened. He understood what "stock" meant. Among trafficked stowaways, young women were picked out, sold as slaves, or forced into brothels. Others suffocated in shipping containers, starved at sea, or never even made it to shore. The public only ever saw the cases that were discovered—countless others died in shadows, forgotten.
For all his power, Lock suddenly felt the sting of helplessness. No matter how strong, one man couldn't wipe away all the rot in humanity.
The smuggler saw none of this conflict in Lock's expression. He was still smiling smugly.
Lock exhaled, voice steady. "Fine. Take me to see them."
The smuggler's grin widened. "Good. But first—industry rule. You pay a thousand-dollar deposit."
"Can I use a card?"
The smuggler barked a laugh. "Brother, you're dreaming. In our line, it's always cash."
Lock had planned to follow them to their den, eliminate the smugglers, and rescue anyone trapped inside. But if they demanded cash up front, things got complicated. He didn't carry cash. More importantly, even if he destroyed one den, dozens more would survive.
This wasn't a job for raw power. If he killed them here, he'd only burn one snake's head while the rest of the body slithered away. Better to use S.H.I.E.L.D.—an organization with the resources to follow the chain, track networks, and dismantle the operation in full.
Decision made, Lock pulled out his phone, dialed a number, and said casually:
"Fury, it's me. Ice & Snow Coffee Shop, 18th Street, New York. Ran into a little trouble. Send some people."
He hung up, raised the cup, and resumed sipping coffee.
The smugglers stiffened. Their hands slipped beneath the table, cold steel pressing against Lock's side. Three pistols, hidden but loaded.
"You called someone?" one of them hissed.
Lock shrugged. "Didn't have cash. Someone has to bring it."
"Don't bullshit me," the smuggler snarled. "You didn't mention money at all. And don't play dumb—you've got a card, and ATMs are on every corner."
He jabbed the pistol harder, pretending to squeeze the trigger.
Lock spread his hands, reigning in his temper. If he acted rashly, the trail would vanish. "Alright. What do you want?"
The smugglers exchanged grins, mistaking patience for fear. They pressed harder.
"Hand over the card and the PIN."
Lock tossed the card onto the table. "Six zeroes."
"Don't screw with us. If this code's fake, you're dead."
One of the lackeys grabbed the card and rushed out.
At S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ, Fury froze at the call log still glowing on his desk.
Lock wanted help?
That was enough to make his single eye twitch.
Could it be Loki? No. Loki wasn't that strong—certainly not strong enough to trouble Lock. Then… maybe one of the forces from beyond the wormhole? Reinforcements from the other side?
If Lock wasn't sure he could handle them, then the threat was catastrophic.
Fury's mind flashed back to the Battle of New York. They had once believed Hulk was the ceiling of Earth's strength. Then Lock had arrived—someone who could casually flatten a warship. For him to call for backup…
The director felt sweat bead on his bald head.
In his typical understatement, Lock had just said "a little trouble." Fury wasn't stupid. He heard the implication loud and clear.
Without hesitation, he slammed his palm on a red button embedded in his desk.
Alarms blared across the Triskelion.
"Alert Level Seven! All personnel deploy!"
Soldiers poured from barracks. Fighter jets thundered into the skies. Tanks roared down avenues. Every agent scrambled to high alert.
Avengers still in New York received emergency pings: Iron Man, Captain America, Black Widow, Hawkeye, War Machine, and Bruce Banner.
Only Thor was unreachable, lost in the bliss of Jane Foster's company—without Earth's comm device.
As chaos unfolded, Fury silently cursed. Thor had better notice this mess soon.
The city darkened under a blanket of tension.
Military cordons swept through neighborhoods, forcing civilians to evacuate. Fear still fresh from the Chitauri invasion, New Yorkers obeyed with unusual speed.
Streets emptied block by block.
But on 18th Street, at the heart of the storm, everything looked strangely calm. Some locals heard the ruckus a few blocks away and shrugged. Probably another shooting. This was America—gunfire was background noise.
Inside the café, Lock tapped his fingers on the cup. Fury's slow today. Is it really that hard to send a couple of agents?
He'd already finished one coffee. Still no S.H.I.E.L.D.
The smuggler's boy finally returned, clutching a brown paper bag. He dumped it on the table, bills spilling out.
The boss's eyes went wide.
"ATM limit's maxed, Boss. Couldn't get it all. But—guess how much is still in there?"
The smuggler slapped him impatiently. "Out with it!"
The boy raised all ten fingers. "Ten digits, Boss. I don't even know how to count that high."
The smuggler blinked, stunned. "What the hell? He's only been here a couple of eayearsYou sure you didn't misread? Decimal point included?"
The boy shook his head nervously.
Even with decimals, it was still ten digits. Tens of millions, at least.
Greed drowned reason. The smugglers' eyes turned blood-red, hungry and reckless as they stared at Lock.
None of them stopped to wonder: What kind of man amasses ten figures in just a few years? And are we really the kind of men who can afford to rob him?
Outside, the military cordon finally pushed up to 18th Street.
And then—
ROAR.
A thunderous, guttural bellow ripped through the air.
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A/N: Sorry Guys, For not keeping up with regular updates the thing is my health is getting worse and worse day by day so I just properly focus on fanfic I'm reading all the comments and review I know the quality is degrading I promise to fix that asap so bare with me for few days and yah I'm not asking any sympathy I just wanted to give you guys update.