Hyde Gardens, Manhattan.
Villa No. 1.
The seven-meter-high living room glowed under a crystal chandelier, tiny flecks of light dancing across the marble floor.
Through the tall windows, the private garden shimmered faintly in twilight.
Skye lay curled on the sofa, hugging a pillow until the seams were wrinkled.
Before she met Finnian Murdock, nights in the van were endless—half-sleep, half-fear, always bracing for abandonment.
After meeting him, things changed. They hadn't spent much time together, but she'd grown dangerously dependent.
Hearing his voice meant safety. With him, she could actually sleep.
But the White House had called him away. Almost half a month had passed, and she hadn't heard his voice once. Insomnia crept back.
Deep down, she was terrified—terrified he would leave her too, just like her parents.
"Ouch."
The mechanical dog lying on the marble suddenly barked, making Skye bolt up. She ran barefoot to the window.
"Little Skye, did you miss me?"
The door opened, and a familiar figure stepped in. Skye didn't hesitate—she rushed forward, burying her face in Finnian's chest.
That night, nothing happened.
When it came to women, Finnian might've been a scumbag, but he followed a certain philosophy: don't initiate, don't refuse, don't take responsibility. Talk sweetly, leave gracefully.
But Skye was… different. To him, she was like a sister.
Granted, she was too outstanding—even down to her perfect A-grade curves—but years of wild living had twisted his tastes toward "foreign horses."
As Skye drifted into her first real sleep in weeks, Finnian sat awake, staring at his phone.
Green arrows blinked across his stock app. In the U.S. trading system, green meant the price was up compared to yesterday's close.
He grinned. "Praise Tony."
Tony Stark had first announced clean energy: micro-reactors. Then, he'd dropped the bomb—I am Iron Man.
Those moves cut Stark Industries' stock price in half… before it surged to new heights.
Finnian had bet big. His fortune was growing fast.
"Brother System," he prayed silently, "I don't ask for much. Just a ten percent discount on Phoenix Force power."
He reloaded the system store, fresh from topping up a million dollars—his "living-off-my-girlfriend" funds.
[Attributes: Charm +1, Succubus. Price: $1.]
"Charm?" Finnian blinked. "You want me to develop into a damn succubus?"
He imagined facing down an enemy, who would suddenly bow and whisper: Lord…
For one dollar? Worth it.
"Buy Charm."
Ding. Purchase successful. Charm +1.
Next item:
[Magic Eye Drops. Restores blindness. One-time use. $100,000.]
Finnian's jaw dropped. "Oh my god. Finally."
Matt Murdock—his "cheap brother"—had saved a man from a truck as a kid.
The accident left his eyes burned by radioactive waste. Radar sense came as a side effect, but the blindness never changed.
Sure, the radar world had its own beauty. But men were visual animals, and Matt had been denied that.
Finnian knew the difference. He had radar sense too. He'd even tried sparring with an ex-girlfriend with his eyes shut, switching to radar mode.
The result? The body was still there, but all he saw was a glowing figure made of particles. Sexy? Not really. It killed the vibe.
"Brother System, you're finally being useful."
He sighed, then scrolled. The third item almost made him drop his phone.
[Item: The Darkhold. One of the original anchors left by an Elder God on Earth. $100 million.]
"Holy shit."
He knew what this was. The Darkhold—the book that once fueled Wanda's chaos magic and burned the Book of Vishanti to ashes. And this wasn't some copy. This was the original.
But there was a catch.
Finnian didn't know magic. Not even the basics. On Earth, the only way to wield real sorcery was to cut a deal with a dimensional demon.
And those contracts? Nine out of ten ended with your soul shredded and your ass sold off.
"The Darkhold is insane. But… kind of useless to me right now."
He could afford it—he'd sell stocks, still have millions left. But spending that much for something he couldn't use felt like a waste.
And yet, passing on the original Darkhold felt criminal. Magicians worldwide would kill for this.
Then it hit him.
Buy now, sell later.
Buy the book. Flip it to some filthy-rich black magician. Then, once he gained magic himself, steal it back.
Perfect.
Pulling up his contacts, Finnian found one labeled Blade and fired off a text:
"Hey, Blade. I've got a rare treasure for sale. If you know a loaded magician, introduce us. You'll get a commission."
Ding.
"Wait for my news. No bloodsucker bullshit."
Finnian smirked.
They'd met during the whole vampire suicide-bomber mess, when Finnian was acting as both SHIELD security and witness. They'd swapped numbers. And now? It was paying off.
The Darkhold cost $100 million. Minimum resale? One billion. In pounds.
Laughing to himself, Finnian pulled Skye closer and fell asleep.
Morning came too fast.
At SHIELD HQ, Finnian gathered the Rapid Response Special Forces under the excuse of investigating the White House attack.
"Rumlow, grab a few guys. We're flying to London this afternoon. Might stay a few days."
Perks of being Deputy Director: he could travel on SHIELD's dime for his own business. Otherwise, what was the point of the title?
Rumlow grinned ear to ear. His first real mission with his "brother." And SHIELD had just rolled out Quinjets.
Hell yes.
Finnian checked the time. Perfect window. He slipped out of HQ, headed toward Hell's Kitchen.
Deputy Director or not—sometimes, the job had to be flexible.