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New York Manor.
On the first day after Hong Fei's departure, Samuel—temporarily managing the manor—fought a creeping panic. The weight of unseen eyes pressed on him. Hong Fei might be watching from the shadows, ready to detonate the bomb embedded in his neck at the slightest misstep. The tracker beside it pulsed like a second heartbeat.
He suspected Frank, the retired soldier, had planted it. Hard to say when—Hong Fei had knocked him unconscious too many times to track. Removing it himself was impossible. A doctor's visit? His skull would explode before he reached the operating table.
Controlling someone in the manor to attempt surgery crossed his mind. But failure meant triggering the device. Or worse, a messy death. Using Dr. Helen Cho as leverage against Hong Fei? The thought alone chilled him. Too dangerous.
It wasn't just Hong Fei's methods that terrified him—it was the man's inhuman precision. No hesitation, no second-guessing. Like a machine wrapped in flesh. By day's end, Samuel understood true dread. He threw himself into work: arranging Cho's relocation, inspecting every corner of the estate, then personally checking on Abomination.
Abomination wasn't just Hong Fei's priority subject. Samuel knew the boss wanted to recruit him. And Abomination's existence? That was Samuel's doing. Their fates were tangled like DNA strands. If Hulk was the first-generation apex, he and Abomination were divergent second-gen experiments.
"How's his behavior?" Samuel asked the surveillance team.
"Mostly quiet," came the reply. "But he loses control weekly."
Samuel nodded. That was the difference between them. Abomination's mutation had been instantaneous—power surging to its brutal peak. Samuel's own transformation had been slower. His skull expanded overnight, but his psychic strength grew gradually, still ticking upward like a silent clock.
If he'd lost control like Abomination? He'd be locked in a cage too.
The monitor showed Abomination cross-legged before a television, his hulking frame at odds with the quiet focus. Hong Fei's recruitment pitch might actually work on him. Samuel shook his head and retreated to his room.
Seated at his desk, his enlarged brain whirred. Weeks of absorbed knowledge had reshaped him from biologist to polymath. He closed his eyes, retracing Hong Fei's moves from the beginning, extrapolating patterns.
Eyes snapping open, he logged every flaw in their operations, then drafted solutions—quick, actionable fixes. He needed to prove his worth fast.
Frank was a combat-hardened killer, the first recruit. Unmatched.
Dr. Cho broke the rules entirely by becoming the boss's wife. No competing with that.
Ivan? A socially inept scientist obsessed with birds. Not even worth considering.
Cho didn't play by the rules and directly ascended to become...
Samuel knew he could at least secure the third position, if not compete for second place down the line. If he didn't push himself now, Abomination's arrival would inevitably push him further down the hierarchy. His hands paused momentarily before his fingers danced across the keyboard, moving so fast they left blurred trails.
In Singapore, Hong Fei materialized the tank inside the warehouse and promptly sent a message to the buyer for pickup. Though smaller than Hong Kong, Singapore's military budget was substantial. As the seller, Hong Fei had no interest in speculating about their motives—business was business.
The payment cleared. Hong Fei packed his luggage and checked out of the hotel. Eight more countries awaited him. This delivery trip served a dual purpose: it allowed the chaos from Liberty Island and Tokyo to fade from public memory. Modern society moved fast, inundated with an endless stream of information. People forgot as quickly as they learned.
By the time the ordinary public had moved on, the rumors would naturally dissipate. Coincidentally, as he stepped out of the hotel, he ran straight into Coulson. Without hesitation, Hong Fei activated "Deceive Time and Crowd." He greeted Coulson with a polite smile. "Mr. Coulson?"
Coulson feigned surprise, then recognition lit up his face. "Ah, Mr. Hong! What a coincidence."
"Indeed," Hong Fei agreed, his smile fading abruptly as his voice turned serious. "Wait—are you here on a case?"
Coulson merely smiled.
Hong Fei waved a hand. "Never mind. Pretend I didn't ask."
"You're sharp," Coulson remarked. "Not at all," Hong Fei replied modestly. "I just watch a lot of TV." Coulson glanced at his luggage. "Leaving?" "Yes," Hong Fei said. "Continuing my world tour. It got interrupted last time, so I'm picking up where I left off. This place is too small for my taste—too hot, too. I'm heading to Northern Europe to see the snow."
As he spoke, the "Deceive Time and Crowd" skill card flickered brightly, and Hong Fei felt a subtle shift. Coulson nodded thoughtfully, seeming momentarily dazed, though he appeared unaware of it.
Hong Fei seized the moment. "Mr. Coulson, I have a flight to catch. I won't keep you. Next time, coffee's on me."
"Safe travels," Coulson said.
"Thank you."
As they passed each other, Hong Fei's smile lingered. Coulson watched him for a few seconds before heading into the hotel. Five minutes later, he emerged again.
From a building across the street, Hong Fei observed him. This confirmed it: S.H.I.E.L.D. was investigating him. He felt neither nervous nor panicked. S.H.I.E.L.D. was in the open now, while he remained in the shadows. Let them try.
Meanwhile, Hill arrived in Moscow alone, opting for a low-profile approach. She disguised herself as a Russian returning home, her accent flawless. Ivan's residence was no secret to S.H.I.E.L.D., so she headed straight for his dim, cluttered room.
Because Ivan had only packed reactor-related items and a bird when Hong Fei took him away, much of his belongings remained untouched. Among them were moldy clothes and stinking bedsheets. Hill wrinkled her nose but pulled on rubber gloves and began meticulously searching. Her efforts yielded two blood-stained playing cards.
She stepped out into the night air and gunned the engine, heading straight for a dive bar on the edge of town. Word was, an old-timer hung out there—a veteran of the information trade. If anyone had leads, it'd be him. Minutes later, Hill shoved open the bar door. The stench of stale beer and cigarette smoke hit her like a wall, but the noise and chaos barely registered. Her expression remained blank, unreadable.
She cut through the crowd, her movements deliberate, until she reached the bar. The grizzled bartender glanced up, his eyes narrowing. Before he could speak, she beat him to it. "I'm looking for Yegor." Her voice was calm, flat. The old man—Yegor himself—didn't even look up as he wiped a glass. "No Yegor here. Just booze. Though I might make an exception for you, miss. How about a juice?"
Hill didn't blink. Without a word, she slid two cards across the counter: a crimson business card and a sleek bank card. Yegor's hand froze mid-wipe. His eyes flicked to the cards, then to her. A beat passed before he pocketed them with practiced ease. Wordlessly, he gestured toward the back room. Hill followed.
Once the door clicked shut behind them, Yegor leaned against the wall, his tone sharp. "Alright, spit it out. Who's the target?"
"Ivan Vanko," she said, her voice cold and steady.