New York, one block from Stark Industries.
Li Ming strolled up like a man with nowhere particular to be—hoodie two sizes too big, sling bag slung casual, a cold beer in one hand and a paper sack of hot dogs in the other. He dropped onto a public bench facing a street cam, cracked a cap, and raised the bottle in a lazy toast to the lens.
One long swallow, a burp, then a bite of hot dog. Another wave, like greeting an old friend. Hi, Director. Miss me?
A black SUV eased to the curb. Behind the wheel, Phil Coulson wore his standard-issue polite smile.
"Mr. Austin," he called through the cracked window. "Director Fury sent me to pick you up."
"Coulson? Long time." Li gave him a once-over before shifting his attention toward Stark Industries' steps. His eyes tracked a woman in a razor-sharp skirt suit. "You should step out and appreciate the view. Science says beauty adds years to your life."
Coulson followed his gaze, recognized Natasha, and winced. "I'm very happy with my girlfriend, thanks. And I prefer not to attract misunderstandings… or her attention."
Li rose, sauntering to the open door. "Heavy with anger, huh? Prenatal? Your boss should be careful—sending a pregnant woman into the field." He dropped into the passenger seat, utterly unbothered by the thought of revenge from the Black Widow. "So, who's the lucky guy? Gutsy move, that. I'd dedicate a song. Maybe 'Love You to Death'? Or something… chilly?"
Coulson's smile went brittle. The car's comms were live—Fury was listening. The last thing he needed was Natasha catching wind of this conversation.
He shifted into drive without comment. In the rearview, the back seat sat soft and empty—premium leather over hidden samplers ready to pull fibers, weight, DNA. The real reason he'd brought this SUV.
Li caught the glance. "What, ghost riding in the back?"
"Your invisible attendant," Coulson said lightly. "Where is he?"
"Kreacher?" Li scratched his head. "Busy at home. Won't be out for a while. Why—need him?"
"No," Coulson said smoothly. "Just heard he's… different. Curious." And there goes my sample. Of course.
They rolled into traffic. Li leaned back, bored, eyes drifting across the blur of skyscrapers.
"So what's Romanoff doing at Stark's?" he asked. "Short on cash? Picking up a side gig? Security chief?"
"Classified," Coulson said pleasantly.
Li tilted closer, voice a stage whisper. "Worried he'll joyride the suit and steal your thunder? Or worried he keels over and the armor lands in the wrong hands?"
Coulson's eyes flicked sideways—keels over?—but Fury's voice hissed in his ear: Eyes on the road, Phil.
So he drove, silent as stone, all the way to the Triskelion.
They parked in the underground garage. Li climbed out, hand pressed to his gut. "Old Phil, bathroom? Pretty sure one of those beers expired. My stomach's staging a coup."
Old Phil. Coulson resisted the sigh. He jabbed the elevator button. "Most people don't put a restroom in the garage. Hold it. We'll handle it upstairs."
Li spotted a restroom sign down the ramp. He smiled, unconcerned, and followed Coulson into the lift.
Minutes later, guided down a corridor, he pushed into a tiled room marked with the universal little man. Empty. He pinched his nose theatrically, fanned the air, and slipped into a stall.
From his bag, he drew a black gourd slick with runes, light sliding off it like oil. He twisted the cap and hissed in necrolingua.
"Spread out. Sweep the building. Every warm body. If you get a clean shot, ride the host—learn their habits, take the wheel. No clean shot? Stand down. We wait. As long as S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn't see the hand, we'll play the card later."
The wraiths hissed assent and slipped through tile and cinderblock like smoke. Gone without a trace.
Outside, Coulson leaned against the wall. A tac team crouched in shadow nearby, safeties off. "Director," he murmured, "you think he's dropping invisible assets in there?"
In his office, Fury stared at a grid of feeds tied to the Triskelion's hidden sensors. Any exotic spike near Austin, and the order would drop: take him down.
He kneaded his temple. He wanted Austin's bathroom break to stay just that. But part of him hoped the wizard would slip—give him cause for cuffs. Austin was no longer just an oddity; he had Stark's trust, Stark's dependence. A wrong move here could mean bodies on the floor and blood on Fury's desk.
He hated that calculus. He missed the days when you could solve problems with a bullet and file it under "training accident." Now he was commissioning Faraday-cage bathrooms just to keep mages from pulling rabbits through mirrors.
Too late. The rabbit was already out.
Li whistled as he sauntered back into the hall, drying his hands, face angelic. The boards showed nothing. No portals. No spikes. No trace.
Fury exhaled through his nose. "Bring him in," he ordered. "Now."
Coulson ushered Li Ming into the Director's office. The wizard took his time, eyes flicking over every corner like he was cataloguing souvenirs. Behind the desk, Nick Fury barely looked up. One silent nod for Coulson to shut the door, then he went back to his monitor, ignoring the guest entirely.
Li clicked his tongue. Big man act. Let me stew, huh?
He strolled to the desk and craned over the screen. "Hey, One-Eye, late-night cinema's bad for your health."
The display snapped black. Fury's brow twitched. His hand blurred, weapon out, double-tap aimed at center mass.
Two shots cracked—then Fury dropped.
Li rolled a shoulder. Self-inflicted. That's on you. He'd felt the trigger pull before the hammer dropped and kicked up a reflective ward. Small arms weren't touching him.
He crouched over the body. No blood. Breathing steady. "Tranquilizer? Cute." Either Fury planned to drop him and bag a DNA sample—or this wasn't Fury at all.
He let his sight flare, and there it was. Wrong soul. Perfect mask, bad core. "Cheap knockoff," he muttered.
Scanning for cameras, he pitched his voice to the room. "Work–life balance, Director. Ignore me, you end up face-down on the carpet. Keep it up, one day you'll croak at your desk, your wife remarries, and your kids ditch the name. All those special funds? Wasted. Tragic. Here, let's move you someplace comfy."
He grabbed the decoy by the ankle and started dragging it toward the couch, humming like he meant well.
He might've done worse—stuffed a wraith in and made himself a new thrall—but not here, not under S.H.I.E.L.D.'s lenses. This Fury wasn't worth the spellwork.
He'd hauled the body three steps when the door blew open. Tac team, rifles up, muzzles like black eyes.
Li didn't blink. He layered another ward, planted his feet, and jabbed a finger. "Go ahead—shoot. If you don't, you're my grandson."
The room froze. The plan had been: dummy Fury downs Austin, not the other way around. No one had war-gamed the "we just shot our own Director" version.
Helmets swiveled toward their lead. He swallowed, desperate to pull the trigger just to avoid the "grandson" curse. He glanced at Coulson in the hall. "Sir, permission to—uh—fire?"
Coulson had already spotted the telltale tranq bruises and winced at the rug-burned cheek. He thumbed his comm. "Mr. Austin, we need to talk."
"About what? Not my mess." Li plopped the dummy onto the couch, sprawled opposite, and bared his teeth. "I walk in, he complains about insomnia. I tell him, take something. He says he's immune—might as well eat chalk. So I suggest a new approach, and boom—he pulls a pistol and double-taps himself. You saw the rest. Sleeps like a baby now."
His eyes cut to Coulson's thinning hairline. He leaned in like an uncle scolding a nephew. "Phil, your scalp's shining. Stress. Don't copy your boss. If you can't sleep, don't tranq your own face. Look at that bruise—hurts to see. Try the butt next time. More padding."
Before Coulson could retort, Fury's real voice buzzed in his ear. Clear the room. Austin clocked the decoy.
Coulson gave the tac team the signal. They hauled the dummy out. "Please wait here, Mr. Austin. The Director will be right in."
Ten minutes later, Li was alone—and bored. He slid into Fury's chair, nudged the mouse. The screen blinked awake. A single file filled the center:
PEGGY CARTER
Li's eyes narrowed. Cameras. Fury was watching.
Peggy? You want me to fix her with the Fountain? Or save on retirement costs and have me undo it later?
He clicked.
Elsewhere, Fury stood over a wall of feeds. R&D had sworn their sensors would catch any exotic energy inside the Triskelion. They hadn't planned for magic.
Still, the instant Austin's ward went up, the board lit—clean spike, full signature.
Fury almost smiled. Good. Record the profile, track him anywhere. If they mapped enough signatures, maybe R&D could even build countermeasures. Maybe duplicate the shield itself.
For half a second, he pictured squads of agents storming hot zones under shimmering domes. Then he remembered the two tranq rounds that had nearly bounced back into his chest.
A knock.
"Enter," he said.
Coulson slipped inside, eyes flicking to the feeds. "Director, you're still not going to see him?"
"In a minute."
"Sir," Coulson hesitated. "When I picked Austin up, he saw Romanoff heading into Stark Industries. From the way he spoke… I think he knows why she's there."
Fury's eye narrowed. He nodded once. "Duly noted."