Mephisto tempted, "Isn't this the favorite trope of you human heroes? Punishing evil and promoting good, helping the weak and punishing the strong."
"This World is full of scum, drug lords, and serial killers. They don't deserve to live, and you need power. Send their souls to hell, and you can take back the Hellfire that belongs to you."
"Only when one possesses power oneself can one do what one wants to do."
"When you possess absolute force that doesn't require you to care about anyone's opinion, what is S.H.I.E.L.D.? What is Vought?"
"Do you really want to stay in this ice house for the rest of your life, watching the World get destroyed?"
The demon's whispers echoed in the room.
The air fell silent, and Fury maintained his previous sitting posture.
Mephisto was very patient; he was not in a rush. For a demon, time was the one thing he had in abundance.
Finally, Fury spoke.
"Are you finished?"
Mephisto smiled slightly, "I am finished."
"Then get out."
Fury spat out these three words coldly, without a trace of extra emotional fluctuation.
"As you wish, old friend."
Mephisto was not angry at this blunt dismissal; instead, he laughed happily.
He straightened up and elegantly adjusted his suit collar.
"The gates of Hell are always open for you."
With the final echo, the devil completely disappeared from the room, as if nothing had ever happened.
Fury sat quietly at his desk, motionless.
Tick-tock, tick-tock, the hour hand kept turning.
10:00 PM.
2:00 AM.
5:00 AM.
The snowstorm outside the window stopped and started, started and stopped.
Fury didn't sleep all night.
He sat there quietly for the whole night, staring blankly ahead.
His mind seemed to be playing a long, black-and-white movie.
From the first day he joined the army, to becoming a S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent, to climbing to that position of power over life and death.
During that time, he had told countless lies and violated his conscience many times.
He had always firmly believed that everything he did was to protect this fragile World.
But what did he get in the end?
Betrayal, isolation, and this cold cage.
"One must rely on oneself."
Mephisto's words were like a curse, echoing repeatedly in his mind, impossible to shake off.
7:00 AM.
Fury moved; he opened his computer and entered the Vought internal email system.
In the body, he typed only two simple words: "I Quit."
He clicked send.
Then, he walked to the coat rack and took down the black trench coat that had accompanied him for many years.
In front of the Base's gate, two fully armed security personnel were on duty.
Seeing Fury walk over, the two security personnel greeted him, "Good morning, Director Fury."
Fury didn't respond; he walked to the verification gate and took out his identification card.
"Beep... Verification passed. Director authority, access granted."
The thick alloy gate slid open to both sides.
Outside the door was a vast, white World of ice and snow.
He stepped out and walked into the wind and snow.
"Director, the weather outside is extremely harsh. Do you need us to arrange a vehicle?" one of the security personnel asked.
Fury didn't stop his pace, nor did he look back.
His figure was soon swallowed by the blizzard.
He didn't know what was waiting for him ahead, but he knew very well what he was going to do.
In his own way.
New York, Brooklyn.
Inside a dark and damp abandoned dock warehouse, a cruel execution was taking place.
The air was thick with the smell of blood mixed with the scent of gunpowder.
Frank Castle, a man who had just lost everything.
His wife, his son, his daughter.
Because they witnessed a gangland vendetta, they were silenced by massacre.
He had believed in the law, he had waited for the Police.
But all he got in return were the evasions of corrupt bureaucrats and those murderers running free.
Justice was late, so he wouldn't wait anymore.
At this moment, Frank was a father who had crawled back from hell for revenge, a lone wolf who had lost his sanity.
"Bang! Bang!"
Two muffled gunshots rang out, and two mafia thugs who tried to resist had their foreheads burst open with blood, falling straight into the stagnant water.
Frank expressionlessly stepped over the corpses; he walked to the deepest part of the warehouse and kicked open the rusted iron door.
Costa, the mafia boss who had orchestrated the vendetta, was shivering in the corner, holding a gold-plated pistol in his hand, but he didn't even have the courage to lift it.
"Please, spare me! I still have a family! I have a wife and children!"
Costa looked at Frank, who was pressing forward step by step, and begged for mercy while scrambling to crawl away.
Frank didn't waste words, firing two shots directly into his legs, then strode forward and kicked the gun out of his hand.
He grabbed the hair of the collapsed Costa, hoisted him up by force, and pinned him against the wall.
The muzzle of his gun was pressed firmly against his jaw.
Frank said expressionlessly, "I had them too."
His finger had already begun to apply the final pressure to the trigger.
"Hand that person over to me, Frank."
At this moment, a deep voice came from the shadows.
Frank didn't hesitate at all; his left hand kept pressing down firmly on Costa, while his right hand's pistol turned like lightning toward the direction the voice came from.
"Bang, bang, bang!"
Three consecutive bullets were fired without hesitation.
"Bang! Ding!"
Two gunshots also erupted from the shadows, and sparks flashed in the dim warehouse.
Frank performed a tactical roll to the side, dodging the incoming bullets, and took advantage of the momentum to hide behind a huge wooden crate.
He quickly changed his magazine, "Click," the bullet was chambered, and his eyes were like those of a hawk.
"Your skills haven't regressed, Frank."
The voice from the darkness came again.
"Bang! Bang! Bang!"
No warning, no hesitation.
Three bullets were fired again in a triangular pattern toward the shadow where the voice came from.
In Frank's mind, anyone trying to stop him from executing his enemy in this situation was an enemy.
From the shadows, a figure wearing a black trench coat suddenly dodged out.
The bullets grazed the edge of the trench coat and hit the brick wall behind, sending stone fragments flying.
Frank's eyes narrowed; this reaction speed was definitely not something an ordinary gangster could possess.
He immediately rolled forward, attempting to close the distance for close-quarters suppression.
But that black shadow's speed was not slow either.
He rushed out of the shadows, a powerful sweep kick aiming straight for Frank's neck.
Frank raised his arms to block the blow, sliding back half a step with the momentum.
The two were in close-quarters combat.
Knee strikes, elbow strikes, pistol butt smashes.
The sounds of metal friction and physical collision echoed continuously in the empty warehouse.
After dozens of rounds of combat, the two suddenly separated after a violent collision.
The M1911 in Frank's hand pointed steadily at the black shadow in front.
And the muzzle of the gun in the black shadow's hand was also locked onto the center of Frank's forehead.
Evenly matched.
Frank finally saw the face of the person opposite him.
"Put the gun down, Frank."
The black shadow slowly lowered his muzzle, "It's me, Nick Fury."