Once Coulson had Salomon's address, he decided to pay a visit alone.
Kindness didn't cancel out training.
He was still a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent.
And S.H.I.E.L.D. agents planned for things to go wrong.
Backup was already in place. A tactical team waited on standby, ready to move the moment things escalated. Coulson drew in a slow breath, filling his lungs with cold air, steadying himself. Oxygen up. Heart rate stable. Mind sharp.
If the target lost control, he would have seconds to react.
If it came down to it—
He would have to draw and fire.
Even if the target was a child.
"A small private museum," Sitwell's voice came through the earpiece. "You don't need to treat this like a war zone."
A pause, then a dry chuckle.
"For all we know, the kid just wanted to put that ring on display and spin a story to boost foot traffic. I checked the numbers. This place is basically dead. No visitors, no activity. London's full of these hobby museums. Some of them are run out of attics."
Another beat.
"You sure you don't want company? You might open the door and find someone's grandma asleep in a chair."
Coulson smiled faintly.
"Sitwell, I didn't know you had a sense of humor."
Then, more seriously:
"I've handled cases like this before. You know my clearance level."
He adjusted his sunglasses.
"If there's a chance to resolve this peacefully, I'm taking it. Too many unfamiliar faces at once could trigger a defensive reaction."
Sitwell sighed over the line.
"Fine. Your call. But watch out for the grandma. Horror rules apply. Old ladies are always the final boss."
"I'll keep that in mind."
Coulson stepped forward.
The moment before entry always felt the same.
A quiet line.
Step across, and things stopped being predictable.
He gave a subtle hand signal behind his back.
The team readied themselves.
Then he pushed the door open.
—
The interior was… empty.
Not just quiet.
Empty.
No exhibits. No display cases. No visitors. No staff. Not even signs of someone living there.
Just a wide, open space and a polished wooden floor that gleamed under the light.
Too polished.
Too clean.
The building itself had age. That much was obvious. But the floor looked freshly treated, almost unnaturally smooth.
Coulson stepped inside.
His shoes made no sound. Custom soles absorbed every trace of movement.
The silence pressed in from all sides.
He scanned the room, one hand slipping into his jacket, fingers wrapping around the grip of his pistol.
According to records, this was the place.
Salomon Damonet had been adopted here.
But something didn't add up.
And when things didn't add up, Coulson's mind filled in the gaps.
Worst-case first.
An organization.
One that identified enhanced children before their abilities even manifested.
Collected them.
Raised them.
Used them.
The museum? A front. A meeting point. A shell.
His jaw tightened.
British adoption records listed Salomon as "adopted."
No guardian information.
Blank.
That wasn't an oversight.
That was interference.
Meaning whoever was behind this had reach.
Inside the system.
Coulson's expression hardened.
Corruption wasn't new. But this—
This was something else.
If children were being taken, trained, turned into tools…
Then this wasn't just a case.
It was a mission.
His thoughts flickered to Melinda May.
If there was ever something that could pull her out of the shadow of Bahrain—
This might be it.
Saving children instead of losing them.
For a moment, his guard lowered just a fraction.
Not enough to be reckless.
But enough to breathe.
He touched his earpiece.
"Send the team in. Place is empty."
—
Of course, it was empty.
Because Coulson had opened the wrong door.
The "museum" he entered wasn't a normal space.
It was a mirror dimension.
A construct layered over reality, designed to misdirect anyone who didn't belong.
Kamar-Taj's mastery over spatial manipulation wasn't just advanced.
It was absolute.
To outsiders, the London Sanctum had two doors.
One led inside.
The other led… nowhere.
Coulson had chosen the latter.
The illusion could be created or dismissed at will. A perfect safeguard. No intruder would ever stumble into the real sanctum by accident.
Which meant—
No matter how thorough S.H.I.E.L.D. was—
They would find nothing.
—
As for Salomon?
He was nowhere near London.
At that very moment, he was wandering through the streets near the Hong Kong Sanctum, completely unaware that someone had just built an entire conspiracy theory around him.
The street was lively, crowded with small shops and food stalls. The air carried the scent of broth, oil, and spice.
This place felt… alive.
More importantly—
The food was good.
Which, in Salomon's opinion, immediately put it above both London and New York.
Where else were you going to find proper bamboo noodles? Shrimp dumplings? Siu mai?
Exactly.
Nowhere.
That alone justified staying.
But there was another reason.
Maggie Quinn.
The guardian of the Hong Kong Sanctum had heard about the "attack" on Salomon. Even though the Sorcerer Supreme had already healed him, Maggie refused to let it go.
"You've been through something serious," she insisted. "Your body needs time. Recovery matters."
And recovery, apparently, meant soup.
Lots of it.
"No shortcuts," she declared, stirring a pot with absolute conviction. "You can't rush this. Proper soup takes time. Low heat. Real ingredients."
She scoffed lightly.
"Those Western methods? Pressure cookers? That's not soup."
Salomon didn't even try to argue.
There was no winning this battle.
Instead, he reached out and lightly pinched Alice Gulliver's cheek.
She looked at him with the same quiet resignation.
Two victims.
One kitchen.
He almost felt like he'd peaked in life.
—
Back in London, Coulson stepped deeper into an empty space that didn't exist.
He would search.
He would analyze.
He would build theories on top of missing pieces.
And every conclusion he reached would feel solid.
Logical.
Convincing.
Wrong.
Because the truth was simple.
There was no hidden organization.
No network collecting enhanced children.
No conspiracy buried inside British institutions.
Just a door he couldn't open.
And a world he couldn't see.
S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn't chasing shadows.
They were chasing something far more frustrating.
Something that refused to leave footprints at all.