At the door, the lead Hydra agent—dressed convincingly as an FBI investigator—flashed his badge.
"Miss Stacy, FBI."
"Mm-hm."
Gwen stood in the doorway, gave the badge a glance.
"What do you want?"
"A suspect endangering national security entered this house. Hand her over."
"No."
"…"
The lead Hydra agent blinked. Her refusal was instant, without hesitation.
Normally—
Civilians who defied them stopped being civilians. That was when Hydra's "heavy hand" came down.
But this wasn't a normal case.
Gwen Stacy wasn't a normal civilian.
Wakanda's ashes weren't even cleared yet. The souls of a tribe still lingered in the air.
So!
After a deep breath and some internal pep talk, the agent forced a smile back onto his face.
"Miss Stacy, we don't want conflict. We only need the fugitive. Hand her over and we'll leave immediately."
Gwen shook her head again.
"I told you—there's no one here."
"Motherf—!"
The second agent, standing to his left, snapped. He jabbed a finger at Gwen's bloodstained loungewear.
"You think we don't see? You think we won't storm in, you—"
Smack!
Before Gwen could even react, the lead agent spun and slapped his comrade so hard two teeth flew out, sending him staggering in circles.
Even Gwen startled.
"Apologies," the lead agent said quickly, forcing another smile. "My colleague didn't know your… identity. I apologize for him."
Gwen steadied herself. "I don't have any identity. I only know there's no fugitive here."
"Miss Stacy," the lead agent pressed, pointing toward Sharon's bullet-riddled car on the lawn, "we saw her enter this house. Her car is right there."
"I don't know whose car that is. But my house has no one you're looking for."
"…Miss Stacy," the third agent spoke now, tone dark and warning. "You know why we're talking nicely."
"Oh, I know," Gwen smiled. "And you know what? If you want in—go ahead."
She stepped aside, opening the way into the house.
The Hydra trio froze.
Because Gwen added:
"Just remember: I didn't invite you. You forced your way in. When my fiancé comes home, I'll tell him three men in FBI costumes ignored my warning and barged into our house."
Their faces stiffened at once.
They really were afraid of Hawk.
Gwen noted their black-face, white-face, red-face routine with amusement.
They exchanged uneasy glances. Gwen shrugged, starting to close the door.
But the black-face agent snapped, "Miss Stacy, don't think we won't—"
The white-face agent cut in, voice hard, "Final warning. Hand her over. We don't want to be your enemy, but don't push us."
Gwen arched a brow.
The lead agent barked, "Shut up!" at his own comrade.
That sealed it.
Gwen realized the act: one scolds, one threatens, one soothes. Hydra's three-man play.
And she laughed inside.
Her gaze fixed on the lead, the "red face."
"I'm curious—if my fiancé were here, would you dare knock? Would you dare demand, to his face, that I hand someone over?"
The thought alone made the agent's stomach drop. He didn't dare answer.
After all, when Sharon had driven into Palm Street, their first reaction had been to slam the brakes.
Because everyone knew—
Palm Street was home to a demon king.
When their superiors learned Sharon had run there, they hadn't given praise. They'd raged, demanded Sharon's capture or death—or their own suicides.
But the real warning?
"Don't provoke the Demon King's Shackles."
How they were supposed to do both at once? That was their problem. If they failed, Hydra would deny them.
So the three hatched a desperate plan in the car: scare, cajole, and bluff.
Maybe, just maybe, they'd make the nineteen-year-old girl hand Sharon over.
But Gwen didn't flinch. She flipped the board, pressing them instead.
"Hawk isn't dead," she reminded them. "He's only away. When he comes back, if I tell him about this… only God knows what will happen."
The Hydra agents paled.
Gwen continued, "Leave now, and I'll pretend this never happened. Otherwise, when he returns, I'll tell him everything. And I won't plead for you. My fiancé… doesn't even spit out bones."
Her tone made it sound like she'd seen it firsthand.
The three men faltered.
But the "white face" sneered, sensing her urgency. "But your fiancé isn't in New York, is he?"
If they failed, they'd die anyway. So fear be damned—they pressed on.
The lead agent's smile faded. "Miss Stacy. Step aside. Or else—"
A new voice cut in from behind them.
"Or else what?"
"…"
(End of Chapter)
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