At midnight, the light from the crystal chandeliers in the Angel's Gift bar grew even softer.
Diluc was intently preparing a Starry Night cocktail; the deep blue liquid swirled in the shaker like a miniature galaxy.
As he poured the drink into a gold-rimmed martini glass, the bar door was gently pushed open.
A faint scent of jasmine perfume drifted in.
Tap… tap… tap…
The slow, deliberate tapping of high heels on the wooden floor instantly silenced the entire bar.
Diluc didn't look up, but the silver cocktail spoon in his hand paused for a fraction of a second.
"Excuse me, darling," a languid voice with an Eastern European accent called out.
The women gathered around the bar unconsciously parted to let her through.
The newcomer gracefully settled onto a high stool, her crimson hair cascading down her bare shoulders like a waterfall—different from Diluc's fiery red, this shade resembled a burning rose.
Diluc handed the finished cocktail to the waiting patron, then turned to face the new guest.
Under the soft light, their red hair created a striking contrast: his like a smoldering flame, hers like a blooming rose.
"What would you like to drink?" he asked, sliding a leather-bound menu across the counter. His voice remained calm, as if greeting the most ordinary guest.
The woman's scarlet-tipped fingers turned the pages of the wine list with deliberate elegance, each movement as poised as a scene from a carefully staged film.
Finally, her fingertip landed on Northern Wind. Her voice, sweet as honey laced with steel, said:
"This one will do."
Diluc gave a slight nod and turned to gather his ingredients.
His motions were fluid and precise—the silver shaker danced between his fingers, and the clink of ice echoed crisply in the hushed room.
The woman rested her chin in her palm, her gaze fixed on him, eyes lingering on the back of his neck as though her stare had weight.
Three minutes later, a pale blue drink wreathed in frosty mist was set before her. Beads of condensation clung to the glass like morning dew, and the rim was garnished with a mint leaf and an ice-sculpted pinecone.
"One hundred dollars," Diluc said calmly.
The woman chuckled softly, drew a folded bill from the strap around her thigh, and handed it to him.
Just as Diluc reached for the money, she smiled—charming, knowing—and gently pinched his wrist with long, slender fingers. She traced a slow stroke across his palm before withdrawing her hand with a hint of reluctance.
Diluc's brow furrowed. With practiced ease, he drew a small black device from his sleeve. A quiet crush of his fingers reduced it to dust.
He looked directly at the Slavic woman before him and spoke in his usual composed tone:
"Natasha Alyanovna Romanoff. Codenamed Black Widow. Born in Stalingrad, 1984. One of the Red Room's most exceptional graduates."
He paused, eyes sharp.
"Currently a Level 7 S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. Expert in disguise, interrogation, and close-quarters combat. Proficient in thirty-seven assassination techniques."
The woman's smile froze on her face, and the allure in her eyes vanished instantly, replaced by the wariness of a cheetah.
"Clear the area," she said softly.
As soon as she finished speaking, the dozen or so female customers scattered throughout the bar rose in unison and left, their movements neat and efficient.
Before the remaining ordinary patrons could react, the bar door swung open again—and sixteen fully armed agents in black stormed in.
"Everyone, leave immediately!"
Just as the lead agent raised his badge, Diluc flicked the silver cocktail spoon in his hand.
With a crisp clink, the spoon pierced through the agent's palm, pinning both his hand and his identification to the wall.
"Who gave you permission to come in?"
His voice was calm and unhurried, yet the temperature in the room seemed to drop by ten degrees.
Diluc returned the hundred-dollar bill to Natasha, his gaze steady on her, and said coldly:
"This drink is on me. Once you've finished it, take your superfluous tongues and leave my territory."
Just as the standoff in the bar reached its peak—
Jingle…
The door to Angel's Gift opened once more, the bell ringing crisply.
Nick Fury, clad in his signature black leather jacket, stepped inside with a stern expression. His sharp, single eye swept over the tense scene, and the corner of his mouth twitched slightly.
"Romanov."
He strode straight to the bar and sat on the empty stool beside Natasha, his voice rough as sandpaper:
"Tell those distinguished guests over there that if they leave now, we'll cover all their expenses for the night—and compensate them double for any losses."
He added, almost as an afterthought:
"Of course, we'll also reimburse Angel's Gift for tonight's lost revenue."
Natasha relaxed her stance and gave the agents a subtle wink. The men in black immediately shifted demeanor, courteously ushering the remaining customers out.
Diluc watched it all with detached indifference, making no move to intervene.
"And then…" Nick Fury said, turning to the bartender, "give me a glass of Gift of the Wind God."
He placed a black card on the bar.
Diluc turned silently, retrieved a crystal bottle from the top shelf of the liquor cabinet, and began mixing the drink.
Nick raised an eyebrow as a glass shimmering with a pale blue glow was set before him.
The liquid had a striking layered appearance: the upper layer a nearly transparent light green, the lower a deep emerald, with a single mint leaf suspended between them—like a tiny boat lifted by the wind.
Fury took a sip and nodded. He set the glass down and fixed Diluc with his one eye.
"So… Mr. Ragnvindr, would you mind telling me why you're in New York?"
Diluc returned a bottle of tequila to the shelf and replied flatly:
"I run a shop, pay my taxes, and occasionally clean up the city's garbage. That's all."
Fury narrowed his eye and said abruptly:
"Mr. Ragnvindr, the world remains the same—"
"Not interested."
Diluc's reply was crisp and final.
Unfazed by the interruption, Fury pressed on, as if speaking to himself:
"There's no need to rush to refuse, Mr. Ragnvindr. S.H.I.E.L.D. harbors no ill will toward you. Everything we do is simply to ensure the safety of this world."
Even if we're occasionally… impolite.
Diluc let out a soft chuckle. Beneath his red hair, his eyes—sharp as blades—glinted with quiet disdain.
"Politeness? Why worry about something you've never possessed?"
And as for protecting the world's safety… it might be safer without you.
"Finish your drink and leave. Angel's Gift only serves alcohol—nothing else is on the menu."
Fury drained his glass and set it down.
"We overstepped today. We're here for one reason only: do you harbor any ill will toward the United States… or Earth itself?"
Diluc took the empty glass, placed it in the sink beside him, and answered without turning:
"I'm not that bored."
Fury rose, his leather jacket rustling softly.
"Good to hear. We'll keep watch—but we won't interfere with yo
ur… bar business. Still, if you ever change your mind—"
"That day will never come."
Diluc cut him off, his voice leaving no room for negotiation.
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