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In the restaurant, Alex Ray calmly picked up the phone and answered the call, glancing at Natasha and Coulson, who sat restlessly across from him.
Four imposing figures stood behind them, watching closely. There was an old man with white hair leaning on a caneāCaineāand Deadpool, who was wearing a red hood and persistently trying to take a selfie with Natasha. The only one who seemed remotely normal was John Wick, suited up and looking as sharp as ever.
Calling these four "strong men" might've been an insult to the word itself. "Four weirdos" might've been more accurate. The thought amused Alex.
"Hello, Mr. Alex Ray. Let me introduce myself. I'm Nick Fury, Director of the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division," came the voice over the phone.
Alex smiled slightly. "Hello. What could the great Director Fury possibly want with a nobody like me?"
"You're no nobody, Mr. Ray. Your father died in a gang fight when you were ten. Since then, you've been raised by your godfatherāWilson Fisk."
"You became a mercenary at eighteen, and you've racked up over a thousand confirmed kills. Your record shows an apparent racial bias. It wasn't until your graduation from Cornell's School of Business Administration last year that you inherited your father's restaurant and apartment, renaming it the Good Luck Restaurant."
"At eighteen, while working part-time, you encountered Pietro Maximoff and Wanda Maximoffārefugees fleeing war. You took them in."
"In just a year, you took over five blocks of Hell's Kitchenāsomething even long-established gangs couldn't achieve."
"Not long ago, you rescued Tony Stark and made a fortune in the stock market. I'm curiousāhow did you know Stark Industries' stock would crash?"
"And now, you've even become an Elder of the High Table. All this at your age... impressive."
Fury recited Alex's life like it was a case file.
Alex's smile didn't fade. "Seems like a privacy invasion to me."
He understood the message. Fury wasn't just making small talkāhe was flexing S.H.I.E.L.D.'s intelligence network. They could probably tell him what color boxers he was wearing or how many times he'd used the restroom that day.
"We're just doing our job," Fury replied calmly. "Our mission is global security. That includes identifying threats. Everything we do is for world peace."
It was the first time Alex had heard someone justify blatant surveillance in such self-righteous terms. Nick Fury really lived up to his Marvel reputation as a master manipulator.
"You're trying to pin something on me," Alex said, unbothered. "I'm not racist. I just hate people who kill innocents and lack moral code. Every single time, someone brought me evidence. I never acted without it. And those people didn't die because of meāthey had accidents. That they mostly happened to be... certain types is a coincidence."
"Those people made mistakes," Fury countered coldly. "But they should've been tried by the lawānot executed by you. You're defying federal authority."
"If the federal system actually worked," Alex shot back, "there wouldn't be so many grieving families, and Hell's Kitchen wouldn't even exist. Justice delayed is justice denied."
He was done with this philosophical back-and-forth. "Alright, let's stop pretending. You agents know what you areā. So what's the real purpose of your call?"
Fury's tone shifted. "Fine. I'll keep the Maximoff twins' whereabouts classified. In exchange, release Agent Romanoff, Agent Coulson, and the team outside. We'll pretend none of this happened."
Fury still believed that speaking to Alex personally was some kind of privilege he was offering.
Alex chuckled at the weak offer. "So Director Fury doesn't actually value his people very much. I think they can stay here a little longer. In fact, tomorrow I'll invite a few dozen journalists to come take pictures. Let the world see what federal agents look like when they get played. I'm sure S.H.I.E.L.D.'s PR department will have a field day."
He stood, stepped out of the restaurant, and turned on the phone's speaker. The street was emptyājust the agents he had taken down earlier, lying in various stages of humiliation. His voice rang out clearly through the speaker.
"So, Director Fury, any counteroffers? One million per agent isn't too much to ask, is it? Natasha and Coulson... well, they hurt my delicate little feelings. Ten million each."
On the other end, Nick Fury let out a pained grunt, like he'd just taken a punch to the gut. "You're joking, Mr. Ray. One million for each agent and ten million for Romanoff and Coulson? That's over a hundred million dollars. There's no way S.H.I.E.L.D. is paying that."
Alex grinned. "Relax, Director. You forgot I'm using speakerphone. Every one of your agents just heard you say that."
Then he crouched next to one of the unconscious agents and said loudly, "See that? Your director doesn't think you're worth even a million bucks. You risk your lives for S.H.I.E.L.D., but in his eyes? You're disposable. If I were you, I'd quit."
Fury was silent for a beat too long, clearly fuming on the other end of the line. This young punk was ruthless. "What do you want, Mr. Ray?" he asked through clenched teeth. "Do you want us to raze Hell's Kitchen? Give me a real number."
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š Enjoying the Story? Get Ahead Now!
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