"...Demons?"
Coulson blinked, processing the word. Then his eyes widened. "Are you telling me that the cannibal attacks were caused by demons?"
"Yep."
Seeing Coulson's blood pressure visibly rising, Quinn quickly added, "Of course, they're not like the demons you see in movies or read about in novels. They're humanoid creatures that happen to be called 'demons.'"
That explanation helped. Slightly.
Humanoid creatures named demons still sounded absurd, but at least it wasn't full-blown supernatural nonsense.
Coulson took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. "Can you be more specific?"
"You're the paying customer, so sure." Quinn smiled as he continued cracking sunflower seeds. "Demons look exactly like humans on the outside, but they feed on human flesh. They have immortal bodies—or close to it—incredibly tough, and they possess superhuman strength and abilities far beyond normal people."
"You're describing vampires."
"Yeah, pretty similar actually." Quinn took another drag from a fresh cigarette and exhaled slowly. "Like vampires, they evolved from humans through ancestral bloodlines. That's why they retain human appearance and intelligence. They're also plagued by insatiable hunger."
"You said they don't age and don't die. So they have no weaknesses at all?"
"Sunlight and Nichirin Blades."
"Nichirin Blades?"
Coulson frowned in confusion.
Sunlight made sense—most dark creatures feared it.
But what the hell was a Nichirin Blade?
Some kind of exorcism weapon? Like silver bullets or mercury rounds?
"This!" Quinn reached under the counter and produced a katana, his smile widening. "This is a weapon forged from special ore. It can inflict real damage on demons. Cut off their head with one of these, and they die for good. One million dollars. Non-negotiable."
Coulson stared at him, mouth slightly open, no words coming out.
He felt like he'd been played.
First, selling information about demons. Now selling weapons to fight them. This was no different from those sleazy salesmen who showed up at your door with a problem and a convenient solution—both for sale.
But...
"I need to request authorization for the funds."
After answering, Coulson pulled out his phone again to make the call.
Even if this weapon wasn't the only way to kill demons, S.H.I.E.L.D. would definitely want to acquire one for research purposes. A weapon with unique properties like this was too valuable to pass up.
"Having to get approval for a million dollars—sounds like your status at S.H.I.E.L.D. isn't so great, Mr. Coulson."
Quinn propped his chin on his hand, teasing him mercilessly.
Sorry my rank isn't higher.
Coulson shrugged innocently, as if to say exactly that.
"What is it?"
The phone connected, and Fury's calm voice came through.
"Here's the situation..."
After Coulson explained everything, the line went quiet for several seconds before Fury spoke again.
"Let me talk to him."
"Alright." Coulson held out the phone. "Director Fury wants to speak with you."
"Sure."
Quinn nodded, accepting the phone. "Director Fury, what can I do for you?"
"Do you have a weapons sales license?"
"Hm?"
Quinn paused, then his eyes narrowed. "Are you threatening me?"
"No. Just stating facts."
Fury's voice remained perfectly steady, but his words carried an unmistakable chill.
"Selling weapons without proper licensing is illegal in this country."
"What do you want?"
"Two hundred thousand dollars."
"Two million."
"Three hundred thou— Wait, what did you just say?!"
Fury's eye widened.
He'd dealt with gray-market operators skirting the edge of legality dozens of times. He had a proven playbook. Wave the legal stick, leverage S.H.I.E.L.D.'s authority, and watch them fold.
The approach had never failed him.
So he'd deployed the same tactic here.
When Quinn responded, Fury automatically started his counteroffer without actually processing the words.
Halfway through, it hit him.
Quinn wasn't negotiating down. He was raising the price. And he'd just doubled it.
Fury couldn't believe what he'd heard. He must have misheard.
Coulson standing nearby had the same reaction.
It was the first time he'd witnessed someone openly challenge S.H.I.E.L.D. like this.
Well, okay.
Not the first time.
S.H.I.E.L.D.—or the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division, to use its full, unwieldy name—hadn't yet fully emerged into the public eye. Their credibility with the general population remained low. Most people had never heard of them.
But among those who did know what S.H.I.E.L.D. was and what it represented, the only people who dared push back were major players—people who could influence national economies or shape political landscapes.
And Quinn?
A guy with no verifiable background, whose ID card S.H.I.E.L.D. itself had processed for him, running a gray-market operation out of Hell's Kitchen... This nobody thought he could push back against them? Did he really think S.H.I.E.L.D. was some charity organization that helped old ladies cross the street?
"I said two million."
Quinn's voice came through clear and firm, brooking no negotiation.
"One phone call from me, and your little business is finished."
"One phone call from me, and S.H.I.E.L.D. is finished."
Fury: "..."
Coulson: "..."
What the hell?
After a stunned silence, Fury snapped.
"Kid, if you've got a head injury, I know the best neurosurgeons in the world who can fix you up. But if you're not injured, I can guarantee they'll find something to operate on."
Quinn had worked with Coulson twice before. He knew what S.H.I.E.L.D. really was.
Which meant he was making threats while fully aware of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s true nature and capabilities.
It was hard to imagine he wasn't mentally compromised.
"Three million."
Quinn didn't rise to the bait. He just raised the price again.
"What the— You..."
Fury sputtered, seemingly lost for words.
Of course, it was all an act.
As the master spymaster, Fury had better emotional control than ninety-nine percent of people on Earth.
He feigned losing his composure deliberately, hoping to gauge Quinn's reaction and determine whether the young man was bluffing or genuinely believed he could threaten S.H.I.E.L.D.
However...
"Director Fury, drop the performance." Quinn's smile widened, confidence radiating from his voice. "Every time the World Security Council allocates funds to S.H.I.E.L.D., you skim off the top. Three million dollars? That's pocket change."
"What are you implying?"
Fury's shock was genuine this time, but his expression didn't flicker, his tone remaining perfectly controlled. To any observer, he sounded like someone responding normally to baseless accusations.
Even Coulson thought Quinn was bluffing.
Whether he truly believed that, though—only Coulson knew for certain.
The "honest man" who was steadily going bald wasn't nearly as innocent as he appeared.
"It doesn't matter if you think I'm bluffing. But if you interfere with my business, information about your secret fund embezzlement—along with some other things that could threaten S.H.I.E.L.D.'s very existence—goes public."
He paused, then added pointedly, "Don't forget what I do for a living."