Nick Fury wasn't the type to sit around and cry over spilled milk. Once the initial shock of the 'Hydra' revelation settled into a cold, hard knot in his stomach, his brain shifted back into high gear. His plan was dangerously simple: feed the fire.
He didn't scrub the dead agent's existence from the records. Instead, he leaked just enough breadcrumbs through the internal network—marking the agent as being on a "high-priority, deep-cover mission."
He knew how these snakes operated. If Hydra's upper management thought they had a man on the inside of a major operation, they'd reach out. They couldn't help themselves. Every ping on that phone, every encoded text, would be a thread Fury could pull until the whole damn sweater unraveled.
But that was a long game. The immediate problem was Chinatown.
Fury paced his office, his single eye darting across the digital map of New York. Between the Hulk, a mystery martial arts master, and whatever game Charles Xavier was playing, Chinatown was turning into a powder keg. Normally, he'd send Coulson or a strike team. But now? He looked at the door and wondered if the guards standing outside were saluting him or the ghost of the Red Skull. He couldn't trust S.H.I.E.L.D. with this. Not yet.
"Time to call in a favor from the outside," Fury muttered. He reached into his coat and pulled out a burner phone—one that didn't exist on any S.H.I.E.L.D. manifest. He dialed a number he knew by heart.
"Frank," Fury said when the line clicked open. "I need you to head to Chinatown. And before you start complaining, this isn't a standard hit. I need eyes. Just eyes. Stay in the shadows, don't engage, and for the love of God, don't let my own people see you. If they spot you, they might shoot first and ask questions never."
On the other end of the line, Frank Castle—the man the underworld called the Punisher—remained silent for a heartbeat. Then, his voice came through, low and raspy. "Chinatown, Nick? You're a bit late to the party. Did I ever tell you about my last trip there? I barely stepped off the subway before some ghost in a tracksuit knocked me into next week. When I woke up, I was staring at Kingpin's triple-chins."
Fury froze. "You never mentioned that. You told me the fat man caught you in a warehouse fire."
"I lied. It was embarrassing," Frank grunted. "The guy moved faster than anything I've ever seen. One second I'm checking my perimeter, the next, the lights go out. If that's where you're sending me, you're asking for a miracle."
Fury's mind started connecting the dots at lightning speed. "Wait... you're saying Kingpin's muscle is based in a Chinatown gym? The same place that's currently harboring a giant green rage-monster?"
"All I know is that the rumors on the street are getting loud, Nick," Frank continued, his tone mocking. "The Hammerhead and Tombstone crews? Wiped off the map. Not by a rival gang, but by some rookie cop named Jack—the nephew of Deputy Commissioner Andy. Word is, Jack didn't get those skills from the academy. He's been training at a Wing Chun school. The same school whose owner basically owns the street now."
Fury cursed under his breath, a string of words that would have made a sailor blush. "Damn it! I'm going to send Coulson to the Arctic to count snowflakes! He's been breathing down my neck about 'superhuman threats,' and he missed a Wing Chun master running a private army under our noses?"
"Arctic? Careful, Nick," Frank chuckled darkly. "There isn't much to do up there except freeze. You sure you want to waste your best man?"
"I said he's going, so he's going! Maybe the cold will clear his head," Fury snapped, clearly agitated. "Listen, Frank. This gym owner—let's call him the Master for now—he's the center of the web. He worked with Kingpin, he's protecting Kingpin's kid, he's clashing with the X-Men, and now he's teaching the Hulk how to punch. Even General Ross is mobilizing. This isn't just a neighborhood dispute; it's a global security nightmare."
"And you want me to watch him?" Frank asked. "The guy who turned my lights out without breaking a sweat?"
"Gather intelligence. Find out why a guy with that much power is playing babysitter for the Kingpin. Figure out his endgame. But Frank... that's an order: stay back. If he caught you once, he'll kill you twice. I can't bail you out this time."
"Don't worry, Nick. I'm not suicidal. I just want to see what kind of man teaches a monster to fight," Frank said before hanging up. In his mind, he was already cleaning his rifle, not for a hit, but just in case. He needed to know if he could even track a man who moved like a shadow.
As the pieces on the board began to move, the atmosphere in New York shifted.
In the depths of a military black site, General Ross was playing his trump card. He walked into a high-security cell and looked at the man sitting in the corner—David Banner.
"Your son is in the city, David," Ross said, his voice cold. "He's being 'protected' by a man who thinks he's above the law. I'm letting you out. Go get your boy. Just... try not to level too many skyscrapers."
David Banner looked up, a twisted smile appearing on his face. The reunion wasn't going to be a happy one.
Meanwhile, back in the civilian world, things were moving just as fast. Jack, the pride of the NYPD, was currently experiencing a meteoric rise that left even the veterans dizzy. In just forty-eight hours, he'd gone from a promising officer to the newly minted Commissioner of the 21st Precinct. Commissioner George Stacy himself had signed the papers, marveling at the sheer amount of political and public support backing the kid. It was as if every influential hand in New York was pushing Jack upward.
But Jack didn't feel like celebrating. He walked through the precinct, ignoring the congratulatory slaps on the back. He had seen the headlines. He knew the President had made a deal with the mutants. He didn't know the specifics of the 'Charles' situation, but he knew enough to be terrified for his teacher. In Jack's mind, if the government was playing nice with mutants, they were looking for a scapegoat elsewhere—and Huang Wen was sitting right in the crosshairs.
Behind him, Max was having a much worse day.
Since the incident at the power plant, Max had been treated like a local hero at Oscorp. He'd been interviewed, photographed, and paraded around like a mascot. His colleagues, people who hadn't looked him in the eye for years, were suddenly his "best friends."
But Max wasn't stupid. He could see the falseness in their smiles. He felt like a freak on display. The more they praised him, the more he missed the sweaty, honest air of the Wing Chun school. There, when you got hit, it was real. When you ate hot pot together, the laughter wasn't for the cameras.
His manager, seeing that Max wasn't "playing ball" with the PR team, had quietly shelved his promotion. The "hero" was now just an awkward employee again. The sudden cold shoulder from his coworkers only deepened the cycle of resentment in Max's mind. He felt the static building under his skin, a literal hum of frustration that made the lights flicker whenever he walked by.
"I need to get back to the gym," Max muttered, grabbing his bag and walking out of the office without saying a word to anyone.
Jack and Max arrived at the Wing Chun martial arts school at the same time. The place was buzzing with students, the sound of wooden dummies being struck echoing through the hall. But the one person they were looking for was nowhere to be seen.
Jack pushed through the crowd, his face pale with anxiety. He spotted Risfisk—the large man who usually acted as the school's gatekeeper—near the back.
"Risfisk! Where's the teacher?" Jack asked, his voice tight. "Is he in the back? I need to talk to him right now. It's urgent."