The television, mounted discreetly into the obsidian wall of Zhou Yi's penthouse apartment, was a conduit for the world's confused, frantic echo.
The catastrophic events involving flight AA6137 and the subsequent eradication of the Maginos' New York base had ripped a hole in the veil of secrecy, causing a global media meltdown that was as ludicrous as it was horrifying.
The news cycle was no longer reporting; it was shouting, each network scrambling to fit the unspeakable reality into their pre-existing political or philosophical frameworks.
"Regarding the horrific monster attack that occurred on flight AA6137 from New York to London, we invited a renowned biology professor from Oxford University to analyze and explain the creature's origins and capabilities." The anchor's voice was strained with forced gravitas.
American Airlines was predictably defensive, desperately attempting to redirect culpability. A spokesperson stated that the incident was not a failure of their security protocols but an unprecedented biological weapons attack .
"American Airlines does not currently possess the resources or the mandate to detect weaponized biological agents designed for in-flight deployment. The failure lies squarely with the Federal Security Bureau, which should have anticipated and pre-emptively warned the commercial sector of such an extraordinary threat."
Meanwhile, a splinter group from a self-proclaimed 'Truth Cult' offered a darker, yet simpler, interpretation. "This was the righteous, holy punishment of the Creator for the spiritual decay of this age," preached a cult leader in a grainy, low-budget broadcast.
"The beast was no mere mutation, but a demon sent from Hell by the Almighty, deployed to scourge the non-believers who mock true faith."
The high-brow scientific community was engaging in immediate, opportunistic speculation.
"This is The New York Times reporting on the implications of this incident. We interviewed Professor Kurt Connors of the renowned Osborne Industrial Laboratory for Advanced Biological Research. This pioneering professor, whose work focuses on regenerative biology, stated clearly that the creature's speed and durability point to a primitive, highly-adaptive viral organism with extraordinary regenerative capabilities. If relevant biological samples could be obtained and stabilized, humanity would stand on the brink of solving limb disability and even internal organ diseases forever."
The academic community saw a terrifying monster, but the industrialists saw a trillion-dollar patent.
Political opportunism was swiftest of all. A White House spokesman, speaking from a sterile lectern, instantly weaponized the disaster.
"The Administration believes this attack constitutes a clear act of biological warfare, originating directly from destabilized regions in the Middle East. The President urges all Americans to take this threat seriously and support the US military's ongoing overseas operations to dismantle the terrorist infrastructure that generates such heinous attacks."
Finally, a glimmer of genuine human sentiment managed to break through the noise.
"This is The Times reporting from London. We spoke to Mr. Charlie, a victim and passenger on the Airbus. Mr. Charlie believes that without the Dawn Knight, not a single soul on that flight would have survived. The passengers are profoundly grateful for the superhero's heroic and decisive actions and hope the nation will finally award him the true, official honor he deserves."
The incessant, contradictory noise spilling from the television was now unbearable. Zhou Yi reached out, smoothly removing his specialized tablet glasses. The action was one of deep fatigue, and he spoke softly to Serana, who was staring intently at the screen, holding a glass of rich, red liquid—a highly-filtered, synthetic blood substitute—in her hand.
"Sweetheart, you've been analyzing this media coverage for nearly two hours straight. Are you planning on internalizing every contradictory narrative the world throws up about me?"
Serana, sitting on the plush rug near his feet, turned toward him, her large eyes bright with infectious enthusiasm. "But they are talking about you! Your actions are heard all over the globe, Zhou Yi; you're an instant, international celebrity. That is truly incredible!"
He reached out and gently ruffled her long, dark hair. "Fame is just a spotlight, and the bigger it is, the more flaws it illuminates. If I truly wanted global recognition, wouldn't it be far more efficient to use my primary corporate identity? Being a Knight isn't about these shallow things, Serana. It's about bearing the burden the rest of the world refuses to acknowledge."
"But what does that burden feel like? What is it like to be the center of the world's attention, the one everyone is fighting over?" she persisted, crawling onto the couch and hugging his muscular arm. Her charming curiosity was genuine, a typical facet of her rediscovered humanity.
"It tastes like a thousand conflicting expectations pressed against your soul, little one," Zhou Yi chuckled, pinching her cheek with gentle affection.
Just as Serana playfully resisted his gesture, Zhou Yi's expression suddenly hardened, and he placed a calming hand on her face. "Hold that thought. Someone is at the gate. And they are not from the usual roster of sycophants."
Serana instantly became alert, her playful demeanor snapping back to the focused efficiency of an executive assistant. "I'll handle the protocols, then," she muttered reluctantly, sliding off the couch and heading for the security console by the door.
Serana's current role as Zhou Yi's personal assistant—working primarily at night to accommodate her biology—was designed to occupy her mind and prevent the moral stagnation that had consumed her previous life. Laziness, Zhou Yi believed, was the breeding ground for apathy, and that was a risk he would not tolerate.
At the secure entrance of the exclusive villa, Serana accessed the security feed. Standing by the locked gate was a woman in a crisp, dark suit, wearing black-framed glasses . Her presence radiated competence and an almost military authority. The first, fleeting impression was of extraordinary, focused power that surpassed the bearing of most men.
Only then did Serana register her beauty. It was an iceberg beauty: sharp features, intelligent, bright eyes, a perfectly straight nose, and thin, decisive lips. It was naturally captivating femininity, yet it evoked a pervasive sense of cold, professional distance.
The moment Serana saw the woman, a strange current of feeling ran through her—a mix of grudging respect and a hint of the inexplicable, non-romantic jealousy that naturally strong women sometimes inspire in gentler girls. But Serana was focused. She activated the external voice device.
"Hello, this is Mr. Zhou Yi's private residence. Do you have a scheduled appointment?"
As a major shareholder in numerous multinational corporations, Zhou Yi maintained strict protocols. He didn't micromanage, but he required quarterly progress reports from institutional directors.
Appointments were paramount, filtering out the constant stream of solicitors. Zhou Yi, the billionaire, was perpetually besieged by self-proclaimed philanthropists, visionary entrepreneurs, and desperate researchers, all seeking his immense capital for their "next big thing."
Research projects, as Serana had learned, were bottomless financial abysses. They could consume hundreds of millions of dollars with no guarantee of return, a risk even giants like Stark or Osborne were wary of absorbing simultaneously.
Zhou Yi, valuing his time and privacy above all else, rarely accepted unsolicited approaches, preferring referrals from trusted friends or his own commissioned labs.
The woman at the gate was not deterred by the question. Her expression remained unaffected by the triviality of the protocol.
"I apologize, I do not have a pre-scheduled appointment," the woman stated calmly, her voice sharp and precise.
"But please inform Mr. Zhou Yi that we are officers from the Strategic Defense, Offensive, and Logistics Bureau. I believe he will find the subject of our visit to be of immediate and critical interest."
Serana then noticed the other figure sitting in the passenger seat: a gentleman with neatly combed, graying hair, possessing a perpetual, gentle smile on his face. He radiated approachability, a soft counterpoint to the woman's severity.
Despite the intriguing nature of their title, Serana maintained the protocol. "I am sorry, but without a prior appointment, I cannot grant you access. I can offer you a number to schedule a meeting in the future."
The woman—Commander Hill—offered a subtle, almost imperceptible shake of her head. "Madam, could you do me a favor? If you convey the full name of our organization and our specific request to meet now to Mr. Zhou Yi, I am certain he will recognize the urgency and choose to waive his usual requirements."
Serana hesitated. Her innate courtesy battled with her professional adherence to Zhou Yi's rules. The gravity in the woman's voice finally tipped the scales.
"Very well. Please hold. I will convey your message." Serana acknowledged, cutting the transmission and moving quickly toward Zhou Yi's study.
Inside the car, parked silently outside the mansion gates, the gentleman with the gentle smile began to tease his companion.
"I find it slightly inappropriate to rely on the emotional courtesy of a young woman to bypass an obvious security protocol, wouldn't you agree, Commander Hill?" Phil Coulson observed, his voice a dry, laconic drawl.
Maria Hill—Commander of the Strategic Homeland Defense, Attack, and Logistics Agency—did not even shift her gaze from the security camera.
"It is not exploitation, Agent Coulson," she replied coldly, her arms folded tightly across her chest. "Compared to the techniques our espionage division utilizes to gain access to hostile compounds, my method was merely a routine social interaction based on human goodwill. You are overanalyzing the situation."
Coulson's smile widened, but his eyes, sharp and alert, darted around the imposing, private estate.
"Really? Employing soft persuasion tactics to exploit a female vampire's sense of duty is now standard social practice? Hill, can you remind me again when your last actual date was? Was it sometime around your high school graduation?"
Hill's gaze finally moved, briefly raking over Coulson's neatly combed hair with the chilling precision of a high-power laser. Those who knew her understood that staring at a personal weakness was her ultimate signal of annoyance.
"I began my training at the Academy at age fourteen, Agent. Therefore, your question is statistically meaningless and irrelevant to the current mission parameters."
"Alright, alright," Coulson conceded wisely, raising a placating hand. Engendering Hill's genuine anger was never beneficial, and the joke was only a moment's distraction.
"I withdraw the statement and apologize for the irrelevance. So, let's focus on the relevant parameters. Do you genuinely believe the Dawn Knight will agree to join the Agency, especially after the stunt he just pulled over the Atlantic?"
Coulson expertly steered the conversation back to its objective. He knew his partner. Hill's meticulous, methodical approach to serious work would surely force her to set aside personal irritation.
They were Nick Fury's right-hand people—the primary directors of SHIELD—and they understood each other's operational ticks perfectly.