"I've handled Coulson, that old fox.
And I replaced the neighbor's door with a 'Hell's Kitchen' level security door.
William felt drained.
He still hadn't had a bite of the breakfast he was promised.
He casually found a small roadside diner that didn't look like a gang hideout, and sank into a booth.
He was too lazy to even look at the menu.
He just told the waitress: "One spaghetti bolognese, double meat sauce, and a Coke with ice."
He desperately needed carbs and sugar to repair his rapidly burning brain cells.
The diner was efficient, and the steaming pasta was served quickly.
The sweet and sour of the tomato mixed with the savory richness of the meat sauce was the most unpretentious calorie bomb.
William twirled a forkful of noodles into his mouth, and the blissful feeling of his mouth being full of food temporarily pushed out the pressure from S.H.I.E.L.D. and super-powered individuals.
This was life.
The sage mode is always fleeting.
He had only eaten half a plate of pasta when Peter Parker's energetic phone call involuntarily echoed in his mind.
Oscorp… visitor passes… spider… William poked at the minced meat on his plate with his fork, his inner drama already unfolding.
His client base was rapidly hurtling towards 'Avengers Reserve'.
Others transmigrate to become overpowered protagonists.
Beating up the Nanshan nursing home, kicking the Beihai kindergarten.
But him?
He became a full-time nanny and clean-up consultant for superheroes.
The more he thought about it, the more he felt his future was bleak.
Turning his grief and indignation into appetite, he quickly devoured the rest of the pasta.
Walking out of the diner.
The cool breeze on his face sobered him up considerably.
He stood by the roadside, wondering whether he should 'visit' Maxwell Dillon.
This guy, he had clearly experienced the benefits of VIP service.
Why didn't he understand the principle of 'if it works well, use it more'?
He actually didn't come back for a repeat purchase!
Bad review!
A yellow, used taxi screeched to a halt precisely in front of him with an emergency brake comparable to an F1 pit stop.
The window rolled down.
A man wearing a baseball cap poked his head out.
The cap was pulled low, obscuring his face.
"Get in."
I didn't call a car?
Although William was puzzled, he didn't think much of it.
He had Maxwell Dillon's company address anyway, so it was a good time to go check it out.
After giving the address, he opened the car door and got in.
The seats in the car were a bit worn, but very clean.
The driver said nothing.
With a stomp on the accelerator, the taxi, like a slippery fish, forcefully merged into the congested traffic.
William's Mechanical Induction didn't detect anything unusual, but his Danger Prediction was subtly at work.
It wasn't a sharp alarm.
But a… very strange feeling of being incorporated into a 'territory'.
This driver was driving too aggressively.
All sorts of extreme lane changes, close-quarters overtakes, yet he always managed to weave through the heavy traffic unscathed.
This wasn't like driving.
It was more like tactical evasion in some kind of urban street battle.
William's body swayed left and right with the car's movements, and he silently tightened his grip on the armrest beside him.
It wasn't until he saw a somewhat familiar face in the rearview mirror that William's eyes began to twitch.
It couldn't be such a coincidence, could it?
Was he doing it on purpose or by accident?
No, I just called a taxi, why did I end up with one of you Moon Knight's hidden models?
Steven Grant, the group's public relations and administrative staff.
Marc Spector, the enforcer of the violent execution department.
This one… the group's 'Transportation and Intelligence Gathering Department' director?
William decided to test him.
He cleared his throat, pretending to casually chat: "Hey, with your driving skills, you used to be a race car driver, right?"
The driver didn't turn around, only glanced at him through the rearview mirror.
"Just familiar with the roads."
With that, the driver reached out and turned on a radio under the dashboard.
What came out wasn't music or news, but a sporadic police communication channel, mixed with a lot of jargon.
William's heart sank completely.
Confirmed.
This was definitely the third employee of the 'Moon Knight' group, the most mysterious taxi driver deeply rooted in the streets of New York, Jack Lockley.
So… switching personalities doesn't require clocking in and reporting anymore?
Is that 'handover of the scepter' just for show?
Your group's internal management is so chaotic, it's hard for me, the CEO consultant, to do my job!
"You listen to this every day?"
William pointed to the radio.
Jack Lockley did not answer.
He just sharply turned the steering wheel.
The taxi, at an unbelievable angle, grazed the rear of a bus and squeezed into a narrower side road.
This driving skill had already surpassed the realm of 'familiar with the roads'.
It was more like muscle memory.
An instinct integrated with the city.
"Screech—"
The taxi suddenly braked hard, its tires screeching on the pavement.
William lunged forward due to inertia but was held firmly by the seatbelt.
They stopped at an intersection, where the red light was on.
Jack Lockley finally.
For the first time, slightly turned his head.
Under the shadow of his baseball cap, a pair of eyes stared intently at William through the rearview mirror.
There was no gentleness of Steven in that gaze.
Nor the ferocity of Marc.
Instead, it was the most primal scrutiny, rooted in the streets.
Like evaluating prey, or a potential threat.
"Your 'business' is very valuable, but your 'tools' are too outdated."
William pointed at the car.
"This car's engine, tires, and communication equipment are all unworthy of your skills. I even doubt it has bulletproof capabilities."
He paused, then threw out his bait.
"I can upgrade it for you, comprehensively. Turn this car into a true mobile command center."
"Encrypted communication, real-time data links, medical first aid kits, and even… some not-so-legal modifications."
"The price?"
Jack Lockley finally spoke, his voice hoarse, as if he hadn't used his vocal cords in a long time.
"Information synchronization."
William leaned slightly forward.
"What you hear, what you see, what you foresee… I need to know it immediately. I need to integrate it into the 'Moon Knight' group's central database for risk assessment and mission coordination."
He added: "Of course, also clocking in. When you switch shifts, remember to press that phone. I need to know who is 'driving' now."
The red light turned green.
Jack Lockley did not answer, merely stepped on the accelerator again.
The taxi smoothly drove through the intersection, no longer recklessly dashing around as before.
He reached out and turned off the noisy police channel.
A different kind of silence fell inside the car.
William leaned back in his seat.
He knew that the silent 'director' had already cast his vote of approval with his actions.
Just as William was contemplating how to draft a "Vehicle Upgrade and Intelligence Reward Agreement" for this new employee, the taxi slowly pulled over to the side of the road.
"We're here."
Jack said.
William looked up.
He found that this was not Maxwell Dillon's company address at all, but Oscorp's futuristic skyscraper.
He was about to ask when Jack pointed to a coffee shop across from the building.
Through the coffee shop's glass window, William saw a familiar figure.
Maxwell Dillon, the honest electrical engineer, was sitting by a window.
Well, he even got a lead on his client delivered right to his doorstep.
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