December 1st, 2007.
S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters — The Triskelion.
Natasha Romanoff's heels clicked with a cautious rhythm on the polished, synthetic floor, their faint sound blending perfectly into the low, constant hum characteristic of the Triskelion's deep interiors.
Vast mechanical systems whirred tirelessly within unseen walls and ceiling cavities, providing power and protection for the colossal structure floating above the Potomac River.
The cold air carried the scent of meticulous filtration. Every breath was a stark reminder of her location: the very heart of the globe's most powerful and secretive intelligence agency.
The physical file folder she held felt unusually heavy. Its dark gray, rigid cover bore no identifiers, only an ever-shifting alphanumeric encryption matrix watermark—S.H.I.E.L.D.'s highest-level clearance marker—stamped in the corner.
The heavy, composite armor door to the Director's office slid silently open, revealing the room within.
The entire wall opposite the door was a massive floor-to-ceiling window, though it was currently shrouded in a flowing, inky blackness. The actual twilight outside was completely blocked out, leaving only the internal smart lighting to cast cold, precise beams that sliced the room into sharply defined geometric planes of light and shadow.
Nick Fury stood like a statue with his back to the door, positioned before that expanse of flowing darkness at the window. The lines of his broad shoulders were taut, and the hem of his black leather trench coat didn't stir, as if he had merged with the foundations of the enormous building beneath his feet.
"Director, excuse me." Natasha's voice was steady and clear.
Fury didn't respond immediately. Time in the office seemed stretched and congealed, broken only by the faint, incessant blinking lights on the central control console, representing global intelligence nodes, proving that the passage of time hadn't entirely ceased.
After a few seconds, he slowly turned. His sole, all-seeing eye pierced the light and fixed precisely on Natasha and the ominous gray folder in her hands.
"Natasha, I hope you have some good news." His voice was low and gritty, like sandpaper scraping stone.
"I'm afraid it's not the 'good news' you were hoping for, Director." Natasha raised an eyebrow and took a few light steps forward.
She placed the weighty folder squarely in the center of Fury's massive desk, constructed of high-strength polymer and metal alloy. The tabletop was mirror-smooth, reflecting the cold, geometric light from the ceiling panels. The folder lay on it like a sudden, unwelcome stain.
"New flagged target, internal codename: 'Traveler.' Priority: Maximum. Threat Level: Extremely High," she articulated each word clearly. "Identity confirmed: Hawk Lane."
Fury's gaze was instantly and intensely drawn to the folder, as if magnetized.
"Lane? That Lane?" He looked at Natasha, genuine astonishment in his voice.
"Yes, the Lane family that made its fortune in mining." Natasha nodded, her movement brief and decisive.
She didn't wait for Fury to sit. Instead, she smoothly extended her slender fingers and lightly swept them across the top of the folder. A faint blue light scanned her fingerprint, and the folder's flap silently sprang open. Several virtual light screens, specially encrypted and only viewable on the equipment here, immediately projected from the desktop, hovering in the air, detailed and sharp.
"Hawk Lane, male, age twenty. Second-year Economics student at Columbia University."
A headshot appeared on the top-left screen. The young man in the photo had soft, gold-brown hair, slightly curled, falling casually to the sides of a full forehead. His smile was warm and genuine, without a hint of shadow, revealing straight white teeth. His light brown eyes were clear and bright, like warm sunlight through honey, almost conveying a sense of untouched, youthful innocence. He was the picture of a typical, meticulously groomed, future elite, born into privilege.
"Family background," Natasha continued, her voice flat, as if reading the most ordinary report. "He is the adopted son, and only acknowledged legal heir, of John Lane." That was public information; anyone could look it up.
"John Lane..." Fury chewed on the name, finally sinking heavily into his sturdy chair, which emitted a low groan of stressed pressure. The wealth empire represented by that name instantly flooded the corners of the office like a cold tide.
"The Lane Group. Made their fortune in mining, a commercial behemoth spanning the globe," he stated, his low voice carrying a note of confirmation. "Lane Industries, Lane Mining, Lane Construction, Lane Capital... a top-tier giant comparable to the Stark Group. I hear one-third of Wall Street's skyscrapers were built by his company."
His gaze swept over Hawk's energetic face on the light screen. "A silver-spoon kid with an infinitely bright future... a spoiled brat... How is he tied to a maximum-level threat?"
"Seventy-two hours ago, Busan, South Korea." Natasha's fingers quickly swiped the air, instantly refreshing the content of the top-right screen. Several blurry yet highly impactful images dominated the display: a scene of shocking devastation. Twisted and broken colossal metal structures jutted toward the gray sky like the bones of a monster. Concrete wreckage had been ripped apart and pulverized by some violent force, scattered into mountainous piles. Scorched marks, like hideous scars, covered the surface of every large piece of debris.
The blast radius had clearly been immense.