Atlantic Ocean, Caribbean Sea
The sun had heated the deck of the rescue ship until it was scorching, and the sailors on duty were dozing off when a sharp engine roar suddenly tore through the sea breeze.
"Huff, huff, huff—!"
A sleek, pure-black fighter jet appeared without warning at a low altitude—just 100 meters above the waves.
It ignored all conventional landing procedures and descended vertically onto the helicopter pad like a falling leaf.
The soldiers on deck instinctively reached for their weapons, but the fighter's hatch had already slid open—and five men in black suits stepped out swiftly.
The tall, thin man in front pulled out an ID. The metal badge glinted coldly in the sunlight as he said:
"Don't be nervous, soldier! This is a S.H.I.E.L.D. matter. Take me to your captain immediately."
The young lieutenant on duty took the document and glanced at it calmly—then his pupils suddenly contracted. He swallowed hard, nodded stiffly, and said:
"O-okay! Please… please follow me."
———
"Excuse me, everyone. Our commander has a few questions he'd like to ask you personally. Please cooperate."
In the temporary lounge, Damian, Peter Parker, and the others were sound asleep when two armed Coast Guardsmen abruptly roused them.
Harry Osborn rubbed his eyes and asked, bewildered:
"Again?! Didn't we just finish giving our statements?"
No one answered him.
Damian and his group were separated and escorted individually into windowless cabins.
On the table in front of Damian sat a box of freshly baked donuts and a cup of iced coffee.
Completely unfazed, Damian picked up a donut and started eating—but after only half, he couldn't take it anymore.
So fucking sweet!
Throw one of these into a planetary engine, and Earth might just obliterate Alpha Centauri the next day! If Ultraman ate one before fighting a monster, his light would probably fizzle out before the battle even ended!
He downed the iced coffee in one gulp, then stared quietly at the one-way mirror across from him.
He knew someone was watching.
Three hours later, the iron door creaked open again—and the man who walked in made Damian raise an eyebrow.
"Hello, Mr. Damian. My name is Phil Coulson, an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. It's a pleasure to meet you."
The man smiled and extended his hand, the creases in his suit radiating just the right amount of approachability.
Damian didn't shake it. He simply tilted his head and said lightly:
"Then tell me how happy you are. In no fewer than 800 words. No topic restrictions. And absolutely no plagiarism or copying."
Coulson's smile didn't waver. He pulled out the chair opposite Damian, sat down, opened a folder, and said matter-of-factly:
"We need to clarify a few details regarding the sinking of the Argo. I hope you'll cooperate."
"Didn't the Coast Guard already grill us on this? They asked in excruciating detail—even wanted to know my dog's name and how long my fingernails are. They've got full records and video footage of the whole thing. Wouldn't it be faster for you to pull those files than to ask me all over again?"
Damian brushed powdered sugar from his fingertips as he spoke.
Coulson slid a photo across the table—a blurry image of Diluc slashing a tentacle with his sword.
"I'd like to discuss something that wasn't in the official transcript," he said. "Like this handsome red-haired man. Mr. Z… do you and your friends know him?"
Damian picked up the photo on the table, pretended to study it for a moment, then said with a look of sudden realization:
"Oh, oh, oh—you're talking about him. We can't say we know everything about him… but at least we know nothing about him."
Coulson's expression darkened. He clenched and unclenched the pen in his hand. After taking a deep breath, he spoke calmly, though with clear restraint:
"Mr. Damian, please cooperate with my inquiry. This will benefit both of us. Otherwise, not only will it waste your time—but if anything unexpected happens…"
For example: the federal government may re-examine the role you and your associates played in that shipwreck.
"Or—"
Before Coulson could finish, Damian cut in with a faint smile:
"No need for 'or.' I'm well aware of your American intelligence tactics—but let me be frank: they're useless on me.
I'm a Chinese citizen. If you intend to use judicial or administrative measures against me, you'd first need to consult the Chinese Embassy in the United States—and see if they approve.
As for trying to sway public opinion to condemn me morally or accuse me of wrongdoing… Excuse my bluntness, but your public denunciations would be the highest compliment I could receive.
Of course, you do have the means to make me vanish without a trace.
But let's set that aside for now. Just consider your neighbor—Harry Osborn, heir to Oscorp Industries and my closest friend. Do you really think you can handle him?
If I were to disappear, how many of your so-called S.H.I.E.L.D. agents do you suppose would be buried alongside me—given Oscorp's influence in the defense sector?"
Coulson: "…."
Watching Coulson's face flush through a spectrum of emotions, Damian gave a faint smile, steepled his fingers beneath his nose, and tilted his head slightly.
"It seems I'm rather better at making threats than you are."
Over the next forty minutes, Coulson's questions grew increasingly pointed—but he remained measured, far less aggressive than before.
Yet Damian's answers remained as slippery as an oiled glass bead: polished, evasive, and utterly devoid of substance.
Just as Coulson was about to call an end to the interrogation—head throbbing with frustration—his gaze locked onto Damian's collar.
Noticing Coulson's intense stare, Damian silently slid his chair farther back. He knew those Ansa people had always had a strange tradition of "sailing on dry land"!
Better stay on guard.
Coulson stared at the dim pendant around Damian's neck for a long moment before casually gesturing toward it.
"Mr. Zagan, that piece of jewelry is… intriguing. Would you mind letting me take a closer look?"
Damian glanced down at the Eye of Providence hanging from his neck, smiled, and replied:
"These little trinkets from my hometown aren't worth much—but they were a parting gift from my mother. She specifically warned me never to let anyone else touch it… or else something terrible would happen.
So, I'm afraid I can't lend it out. My apologies."
Coulson frowned—but remembering the awkward standoff forty minutes earlier, he forced a smile.
"Don't dismiss the offer so quickly, Mr. Zagan. We don't take things without compensation. Name your price. If it's reasonable, we're willing to pay."
"Really?" Damian's eyes gleamed. "Then I'll take $15.71 trillion."
Coulson stared at him as if God had not only closed a window—but slammed a steel door on his brain.
Exactly $15.71 trillion—the total U.S. GDP for the second quarter of this year.
Coulson snapped his blank notebook shut, stood, and extended his hand with a tight smile.
"Thank you very much for your… cooperation. Goodbye."
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