The night was as dark as ink, and Diluc looked like a dancing flame under the streetlights.
After leaving Stark Villa, he walked slowly along the secluded path on Long Island, the hem of his black-and-red windbreaker swaying gently with each step.
The night in the suburbs of New York was not quiet. Occasionally, the roar of car engines echoed in the distance, and nearby, the chirping of insects rose from the grass.
After walking for about twenty minutes, Diluc suddenly stopped in an abandoned warehouse district.
There were few streetlights here. The brick walls of the buildings on both sides were mottled and weathered, and the air was thick with the smell of rust and the stench of damp wood.
He turned slowly, his fiery red eyes glowing faintly in the shadows.
"There's no one here. No need to hide."
Diluc's voice wasn't loud, but it carried with unusual clarity through the empty streets.
Before he finished speaking, several dark figures flashed across the rooftops of residential buildings over twenty meters high on either side.
With the hiss of ropes sliding through harnesses, twelve fully armed soldiers rappelled down in a tight tactical formation, their combat boots landing with barely a sound.
They wore black tactical uniforms; the night-vision goggles mounted on their helmets emitted a faint green glow, and the MP5 submachine guns in their hands were all aimed at Diluc's chest.
Buzz… buzz… buzz…
Almost simultaneously, a swarm of drones filled the night sky with a sharp buzzing. Twelve quadcopters descended from different directions, their underslung micro–machine guns glinting coldly in the moonlight.
They hovered ten meters above the ground in a flawless tactical formation, red-dot laser sights weaving a deadly web across Diluc's windbreaker.
Diluc didn't even blink. His gaze swept the surroundings before settling on the far end of the alley.
There, a convoy of five black Chevrolet Suburbans rumbled toward them, the crunch of their tires over gravel unnaturally loud in the silence.
Screech!
The convoy halted ten meters from Diluc. The doors flew open in unison, and twenty-three men in black suits spilled out, swiftly forming a second encirclement.
Their movements were perfectly synchronized—clearly the result of professional military training.
The lead man stepped out last. Tall and lean, with a high hairline and a gentle smile that somehow inspired no discomfort, he approached with calm assurance.
"Hello, Mr. Diluc. Nice to meet you. I'm Phil Coulson, an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. We mean you no harm."
Coulson smiled and stopped three paces away. His voice was as smooth and polished as his impeccably pressed suit.
Diluc's eyes lingered on Coulson's face for two or three seconds, then flicked to the suited agents behind him—whose jackets bulged at the waist—and the armed soldiers surrounding him.
"I'm curious," Diluc said, his voice colder than the night wind. "If this isn't malicious, what would it look like if you were hostile?"
Coulson's smile didn't waver. He spoke as if they were sharing casual conversation over coffee:
"I hope you understand—this is just standard procedure. We hold no personal animosity toward you. These precautions are solely for Tony Stark's protection."
As he spoke, Coulson extended his right hand.
But Diluc made no move to take it. A gust of wind swept through the alley, sending his red ponytail swaying gently—strands brushing against the metal pauldrons on his shoulders.
This scene made the surrounding agents tense up simultaneously, and several of them rested their fingers on the trigger guards.
Coulson withdrew his hand naturally, as if he'd expected to be rejected, and added:
"Mr. Stark is currently in an extraordinary situation. A man of unknown origin, claiming to be an intelligence dealer, suddenly appeared beside him. We have to treat him with caution."
He paused before continuing:
"Besides, you and I both know these weapons pose no real threat to you. Isn't that right, Mr. Diluc?"
A drone lowered its altitude slightly, its onboard camera's zooming sound unnervingly loud in the silence.
Diluc looked up just as the drone's engine emitted an abnormal hum. It wobbled, then rose back to its original position.
"Although this may seem presumptuous," Coulson went on, his tone as casual as if discussing tomorrow's weather, "my superiors would like to meet with you. If you don't mind, please come with us.
"Of course, if you have any concerns, you're welcome to wait here for half an hour—Director Fury is on his way."
Diluc silently circled around Coulson and strode outside with leisurely ease.
"Please tell your director," he said without turning back, "that I have no intention of cooperating with S.H.I.E.L.D. at the moment. He needn't bother."
Immediately, three suited agents stepped forward, forming a tight triangle to block his path.
One placed his right hand near his waist and raised his left in a clear blocking gesture. "Sir, please—"
His words cut off abruptly.
Diluc moved so swiftly he left an afterimage—a blur of crimson. In one motion, he stepped forward, his right hand slicing like a blade toward the nearest agent's wrist.
"Ahhhhh!"
A sharp click echoed as the man's pistol slipped from his grip—and was caught midair by Diluc's left hand.
The second agent had barely drawn his weapon when a searing pain shot through his wrist—Diluc's boot had struck his radius with pinpoint precision.
At the same time, the captured M1911 spun half a circle between Diluc's fingers before the butt slammed into the third agent's temple. The entire sequence lasted less than two seconds.
By the time the first agent dropped to his knees, clutching his wrist, his two companions were already unconscious. Shattered pieces of their pistols lay scattered across the ground like fallen petals.
"Fire!"
A soldier shouted.
"Don't move!!"
Coulson's command rang out almost simultaneously.
But it was too late. Two drones in the sky had already fired.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The 7.62mm rounds tore through the air—only to veer off course half a meter from Diluc, embedding themselves deep into the brick wall behind him.
Diluc's silhouette blurred. His leap defied physics, like a crimson leaf caught in a gale—and in the blink of an eye, he stood before one of the drones.
Swish!
His right hand carved a dark red arc through the air. The military-grade drone, worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, split cleanly in two, electric sparks erupting like fireworks.
Sizzle… sizzle…
"Cease fire! Everyone, fall back!"
Coulson's voice rose an octave—an uncharacteristic edge of panic breaking through.
The remaining soldiers retreated in disciplined formation, though two instinctively raised their rifles.
Diluc didn't pause upon landing. With a fluid motion, he drew his right hand behind his back—and a dark red sword materialized from thin air, wreathed in ominous black flames.
Huaaa—!
A sweeping arc unleashed a wave of fire that raced across the ground, melting the last two soldiers' weapons into molten slag.
The intense heat warped the air—but harmed no one.
The drones abruptly lost power, plummeting like shot-down birds. The only sounds left were the soldiers' ragged breaths and the crackle of short-circuiting electronics.
Diluc straightened his slightly disheveled collar and fixed his gaze on Coulson's pale face.
"Your men don't seem to listen to you."
Coulson swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing—but he quickly composed himself. "Thank you for showing mercy," he said earnestly. "This is the first time they've faced someone like you. They never meant to become your enemy—it was purely instinct."
Diluc offered no reply. He turned and walked deeper into the alley, the sharp click of his boot heels echoing in the silence.
This time, everyone instinctively parted ways—no one dared step forward to stop him.