Snowflakes drifted down from the gray December sky, each one unique in its crystalline structure, each one adding to the white blanket slowly accumulating across New York's streets. The precipitation fell with patient persistence, coating everything it touched in pristine white that would eventually turn to gray slush under the assault of urban traffic and countless footsteps.
One flake landed on Nolan's black woolen windbreaker, creating a moment of contrast before beginning its inevitable melt. The dark fabric made the snow more visible, each white speck standing out sharply before dissolving into dampness.
He sat at an outdoor table belonging to a café that had optimistically set up its winter seating despite the weather. His posture was rigid, back straight, legs crossed at the knee in a position that suggested formality despite the casual setting. A small jar dangled from his left wrist, suspended by a red prayer rope his aunt had knitted with careful attention to detail. The container held the illusion dust, which currently concealed his true appearance behind a mask of apparent normalcy.
His expression remained calm, neutral, giving nothing away as he focused his attention on the two men sitting across from him.
The first was middle-aged, probably late forties, with the particular kind of worn appearance that came from years spent navigating the legal system's gray areas. He wore a purple suit that was slightly too bold for conservative professional settings, paired with a tie so bright it seemed to glow against the winter gloom. His name was Saul Goodman, and his reputation preceded him throughout New York's less savory business circles.
He'd once been the go-to legal savior for countless gang operations, the man you called when conventional attorneys wouldn't touch your case. Now he occupied a considerably more legitimate position as head of Imperial Heavy Industries' legal department, though his methods remained characteristically flexible regarding rules and regulations.
The law firm he worked with, Foggy Nelson's practice, had proven invaluable to Imperial Heavy Industries' expansion over the past six months. Their contributions to navigating regulatory frameworks and corporate acquisitions had been substantial.
The second man was younger, probably early thirties, with the kind of broad-shouldered build that suggested regular physical activity. His fingers moved constantly, fidgeting with nervous energy, tapping against the table, adjusting his jacket, unable to remain still. A piece of gum worked between his teeth, his jaw moving in rhythmic chewing that marked him as someone trying to manage anxiety through repetitive action.
Eddie Brock. Even Nolan had heard the name before David had recruited him. A journalist with a reputation for aggressive investigation and a career that had suffered some spectacular setbacks. Currently, he remained unaware of the alien symbiote that would eventually transform him into something considerably more dangerous.
For now, he was simply the head of Imperial Heavy Industries' propaganda department, lured away from the Global Daily by David's offer of a salary that exceeded industry standards by a considerable margin, combined with working hours flexible enough to be almost nonexistent.
Nolan's fingers rose to his face, supporting his chin in a gesture that appeared casual but allowed him to study both men without seeming to stare directly. His voice emerged calm, measured, carrying just enough warmth to avoid complete coldness.
"I apologize that this is our first formal meeting since Imperial Heavy Industries' establishment. I'm quite introverted by nature, not particularly skilled at social interaction. In the past, I preferred delegating these kinds of arrangements to others."
Both men had begun shifting in their seats, legs bouncing slightly, feet stamping against the cold pavement in unconscious attempts to maintain circulation. The outdoor seating had seemed romantic in concept but proved considerably less pleasant in execution with snow falling and temperatures hovering just above freezing.
Goodman recovered first, his decades of experience navigating awkward situations serving him well. His face arranged itself into a professional smile, the kind that looked genuine despite being purely performative.
"Mr. David briefed us that you're the primary owner behind Imperial Heavy Industries. It's completely natural and appropriate that you'd prefer to avoid complicated social obligations." His tone carried practiced smoothness, words flowing easily despite the cold.
Eddie Brock interrupted before Goodman could continue building momentum. The journalist's patience for corporate pleasantries had apparently reached its limit. He swallowed his gum with visible effort, his throat working, then raised his eyebrows in a gesture that suggested polite skepticism.
"Boss." His voice came out deeper than expected, carrying a gravelly quality. "You asked us to meet for coffee in this weather. I'm assuming there's something specific you need us to handle?"
Nolan's lips curved slightly, not quite reaching a full smile but suggesting mild amusement. His hand rose to pat the snowflakes accumulating on his shoulders, brushing them away with gentle motions that scattered white powder into the air.
"Nothing too pressing. I've just concluded some particularly exhausting work recently, and I wanted to handle routine business matters as a way to... decompress. Return to normal operations, so to speak." His gaze drifted past them, focusing on something in the middle distance that no one else could see. "It seemed appropriate to meet face-to-face, ensure we recognize each other. Avoid any confusion if I need to contact you directly in the future."
He paused, then blinked as if remembering something he'd nearly forgotten. "Though if we're discussing significant matters, there is one item of business. Robert Hunter, the current CEO managing Imperial Heavy Industries' day-to-day operations, will be removed from his position soon."
The statement landed like a stone dropping into still water. Both men's expressions shifted, subtle changes that spoke volumes. Goodman's professional smile froze in place. Eddie's leg stopped bouncing mid-motion.
Eddie broke the silence first, his brow furrowing with obvious confusion mixed with concern. He hesitated briefly, clearly weighing whether to speak, then apparently decided directness was the safer approach.
"Uh, boss, with all due respect... can I ask why? Has Mr. Hunter done something wrong?"
Nolan's expression didn't change. He lowered his gaze, appearing to consider the question thoughtfully, then responded in that same calm tone.
"He hasn't made any catastrophic errors. The issue is that his management philosophy and work priorities don't align with Imperial Heavy Industries' direction. When that fundamental incompatibility exists, loyalty becomes irrelevant. He needs to be replaced."
The words emerged matter-of-fact, clinical in their assessment of a man's career termination. Nolan's eyes fixed on Eddie with steady focus, making it clear this wasn't a discussion or negotiation. Simply a statement of impending reality.
The decision had actually originated with David before the Man of Iron had departed for the Pacific. The AI had compiled extensive documentation on Robert's performance, analyzing patterns that suggested growing problems.
Robert was genuinely talented, that couldn't be denied. A rare multi-functional management expert capable of handling complex operations across multiple business sectors simultaneously. Imperial Heavy Industries had flourished under his guidance, expanding faster than initial projections had predicted.
Nolan had even given him a nickname privately: Little Guilliman, after the Primarch known for administrative genius.
But talent couldn't compensate for fundamental loyalty issues.
Robert had demonstrated contempt for Madame Gao from the beginning, treating the gang leader with barely concealed disdain despite her integral role in the organization's structure. That attitude had sparked numerous commercial conflicts, small frictions that accumulated over time.
That alone might have been manageable, attributed to personality clashes or misunderstandings about the corporate hierarchy.
But then Robert had begun making unauthorized changes to David's directives. He'd expressed vocal dissatisfaction with Imperial Heavy Industries' "mysterious and almost charitable" wealth distribution patterns. He'd started reaching out to other corporate entities, attempting to build alliances that would transform the company into a traditional financial oligarchy focused purely on profit maximization.
Those actions revealed someone who fundamentally misunderstood Imperial Heavy Industries' purpose. The corporation existed as a tool, a mechanism for accomplishing objectives at the societal level while supporting Nolan's actual operations. It wasn't meant to be a conventional business pursuing standard capitalist goals.
Robert's attempts to "improve" it demonstrated complete absence of loyalty or understanding. He'd signed his own termination notice through his actions.
Goodman, recognizing the tension building in the conversation, quickly deployed his most effective weapon: deflection through humor. His laugh emerged practiced, warm, designed to ease uncomfortable situations.
"Haha, alright Eddie, we're just employees here. Company personnel decisions aren't our call to make." He turned toward Nolan, including him in the circle of camaraderie. "Right, boss?"
The intervention worked, breaking the moment's gravity and providing Eddie with an exit from the awkward position he'd put himself in.
Nolan's nose twitched suddenly, a subtle movement as if catching an unexpected scent on the winter air. His eyes narrowed fractionally, attention shifting away from his employees toward something else entirely.
"We've officially met now. I can see you're both freezing." His tone became more decisive, carrying clear dismissal. "Let's conclude today's meeting. You're free to leave."
Goodman and Eddie practically leaped from their seats, relief evident in their movements. They stamped their feet against the pavement, trying to restore feeling to limbs that had gone numb from prolonged exposure to cold. After quick, respectful farewells to Nolan, who remained seated with his legs still crossed, they hurried away together.
Their figures rapidly disappeared into the curtain of falling snow, swallowed by the white precipitation and the gray urban landscape.
Nolan remained motionless for several heartbeats after they'd gone. His expression had transformed, losing the mild pleasantness and settling into something considerably more serious. Wary.
He reached for the cup of black coffee sitting before him, the liquid long since gone cold. He raised it to his lips and took a deliberate sip.
The bitterness hit immediately, thick and unpleasant, spreading across his tongue and into the back of his throat. His face scrunched involuntarily, a grimace of distaste.
"Young people." A voice emerged from nearby, cultured and aged, carrying the particular quality of someone accustomed to being heard. "Pure black coffee isn't something everyone can appreciate. It's rather old-fashioned. And cold black coffee becomes even more difficult to swallow."
Nolan's head turned slowly toward the source. His eyes, still narrowed slightly, tracked across the café's outdoor seating area.
An elderly man sat at another table approximately three meters distant. He was distinguished-looking, with white hair styled immaculately despite the falling snow. His suit was white as well, clearly expensive, tailored to fit his frame perfectly. A gray mink coat draped across his shoulders, the fur catching snowflakes that melted slowly against the warm material.
One hand gripped a gentleman's cane, the kind carried more for style than necessity, topped with what appeared to be a silver handle. A monocle perched in front of his right eye, the single lens giving him an anachronistic appearance, like someone displaced from a previous century.
Nolan studied him carefully, taking in details with the practiced assessment of someone who'd learned to identify threats. Something felt wrong about the old man, though pinpointing exactly what proved difficult.
"I've always preferred tea over coffee," Nolan said after a moment, his tone polite but guarded. "But sometimes coffee serves its purpose."
The white-haired man's face arranged itself into an expression of gentle warmth, grandfatherly kindness radiating from his features. He inclined his head in a small bow of acknowledgment.
"Hello, young man. My name is Faust. I'm a retired gentleman traveling alone through the continent. Seeing the sights, experiencing different cultures, enjoying my final years before age makes such adventures impossible."
Nolan's instincts were screaming warnings, though the old man appeared completely harmless. Just another wealthy retiree with time and money to spare.
"Traveling to New York in winter isn't the most pleasant choice." Nolan's response remained polite, measured. "Please be careful. The city can be dangerous, especially for tourists."
He stood abruptly, brushing accumulated snow from his windbreaker and his short gray hair with deliberate motions. "I apologize, but the snow is intensifying. I should depart. Safe travels, Mr. Faust."
Without waiting for a response, Nolan turned and strode toward the street's end, his pace quick but not quite running. His instincts demanded distance, and he'd learned to trust those warnings.
The old man remained seated, watching Nolan's retreating figure with that same gentle smile plastered across his weathered features. He waited patiently until the younger man had completely disappeared into the curtain of falling snow, becoming just another shadow swallowed by winter's white embrace.
Then the smile transformed.
The gentle expression melted away, replaced by something considerably less benign. His eyes, visible through and beside the monocle, gleamed with predatory interest. The kind of look a hunter might wear when spotting particularly interesting prey.
"Haha." The laugh emerged low, more growl than actual amusement. "New York truly deserves its reputation as a metropolis. A young creature with werewolf blood running through his veins, walking around so openly, so casually, without proper precautions."
He shook his head slowly, tutting like a disappointed teacher. "Old man, you really should travel more often. So much to discover. So much to learn about how the modern world operates."
His grip on the cane tightened, knuckles going white despite the gloves covering his hands. When he spoke again, his voice carried anticipation mixed with something darker.
"Well then. Let's stretch muscles and exercise bones that haven't been properly used in decades. Time to hunt down these Guardians of Terra terrorists everyone's so concerned about." His smile widened, revealing teeth that seemed slightly too white, too perfect. "Burn them to ashes. Make an example. Remind the world that some threats should be feared."
He raised his free hand, making a gesture that seemed to invoke something unseen, calling upon forces that existed beyond normal perception.
"Great Demonic Shadow above, may your endless will guide my path of exploration."
The prayer, if it could be called that, hung in the winter air for a moment. Then the old man stood, moving with surprising grace for someone claiming advanced age. He adjusted his mink coat, positioned his cane properly, and began walking in the direction Nolan had departed.
The hunt had begun.
And Nolan, already several blocks away and moving fast toward the underground base's concealed entrance, had no idea that his disguise had failed to fool something that viewed the world through considerably different senses than simple sight.
The snow continued falling, beautiful and merciless, covering the city in white while darker things moved beneath its peaceful surface.
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