"Mr. Mercer… did you find anything?"
Phil Coulson watched Rowan Mercer press two fingers to the brow of a critically wounded attacker, eyes closed, expression distant. Rowan hadn't spoken a word since kneeling down, and Coulson's instincts were already firing. Twenty years in the field had taught him to recognize the signs. This looked uncomfortably close to mind-reading.
Coulson had dealt with enhanced individuals before. Most were ordinary people who'd gained abilities they didn't fully understand. Many folded the moment authority pushed back. Some tried to use their powers for crime, only to discover that most abilities were far less dangerous than a handgun. There was a man once who could spew molten flame from his hands and thought that made him invincible. He robbed a bank and went down to a tranquilizer round in under five seconds.
The truly dangerous ones were rarer, but even they usually fell to preparation, technology, and teamwork.
Rowan was different.
Multiple abilities. Calm under fire. No hesitation. No panic.
That kind of person didn't drift through the world unnoticed.
In Coulson's experience, someone like Rowan either joined an organization like S.H.I.E.L.D., or lived under constant surveillance.
"I did learn something," Rowan said at last, opening his eyes. "But I can't share it."
Before Coulson could react, Rowan stood. A sharp crack rang out as Rowan dispatched the remaining injured attackers without hesitation. Then he turned.
"Obliviate. Memory modification."
Coulson froze. His eyes glazed over, posture slackening as his thoughts unraveled and were quietly rewritten.
Rowan had no interest in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s internal rot or its buried secrets. He didn't want his abilities cataloged, tracked, or analyzed. A memory charm followed by implanted false recollections was the cleanest option.
It wasn't foolproof. S.H.I.E.L.D. agents were mentally conditioned, and even stronger influences had been reversed with technology before. But by the time anyone noticed inconsistencies, Rowan suspected he'd no longer need to hide.
Killing Coulson would have been simpler.
Rowan chose not to.
The man had been ready to die buying them time. That earned him mercy.
"Rowan… what did you do to him?" Pepper asked, shaken as Coulson stood there, vacant-eyed.
Rowan smiled lightly. "A short hypnosis. When he wakes up, he'll think he handled everything himself. Just don't correct him."
Pepper swallowed and nodded. "O-okay."
A moment later, Coulson blinked and straightened.
"Are you two alright?" he asked immediately.
Before they could answer, engines roared in the distance. Several vehicles approached at speed. Rowan's shoulders tensed, but Coulson lowered his weapon.
"Relax," Coulson said. "That's backup."
Black SUVs screeched to a halt. A team in tactical gear deployed, led by a stern Asian woman with sharp eyes.
"Well," she said, surveying the scene, "looks like you've been busy, Coulson. Didn't know you'd leveled up."
Coulson laughed, clearly pleased. "Guess today's my day, May. Don't underestimate me."
Rowan studied her quietly.
Melinda May. A top-tier S.H.I.E.L.D. operative.
In his memory, she should have been behind a desk by now. Another reminder that this universe didn't follow scripts perfectly.
After a brief exchange, May's team secured the scene and began tracing the attackers' origin. Coulson ushered Rowan and Pepper into a S.H.I.E.L.D. vehicle and continued toward Tony Stark's Malibu estate.
As they pulled away, May paused, staring at the bullet trajectories carved into concrete and steel.
"That angle's wrong," she murmured. "That's not how gunfire works."
By dusk, Obadiah Stane arrived outside Stark's mansion.
"Remember," he told his men calmly, "no survivors."
The mercenary leader nodded. "Understood."
Dozens of elite contractors moved in, silent and precise. These weren't amateurs. They were the kind of professionals Obadiah paid generously year after year for moments exactly like this.
The mansion's private security folded quickly.
But inside the main hall, they stopped.
A broad-shouldered man with a thick beard stood in their path, leaning casually against a counter, glass of whiskey in hand.
"I gotta say," Logan drawled, eyeing the rifles, "breaking into someone's house like this? Bad manners."
Obadiah stepped forward, unimpressed.
"And you are?"
"Someone who doesn't like uninvited guests."
Obadiah sneered. The man wore a tank top. No visible weapons. No armor.
"Where's Stark?" Obadiah demanded. "Tell him to stop hiding. He can't run."
Logan took a slow sip of his drink.
"Yeah," he said mildly. "About that."
His knuckles clenched.
Metal slid free with a sound like death sharpening its smile.