Yegor's grey eyebrows twitched at the familiar name before quickly smoothing out, but Hill caught the fleeting micro-expression. The old man closed his eyes, tilting his chin upward as if lost in thought. Hill waited in silence. When Yegor finally opened his eyes, his voice carried a weight of memory. "I know him. Ivan Vanko, Anton's son."
"Old Anton used to drink here often before he fell ill," Yegor continued. "I saw his boy too. Smart as a whip, but he chose the wrong path. There was always something... secretive about him. If I were younger, I might've been tempted to dig into what he was hiding. But you're too late. Ivan left Moscow suddenly months ago. No idea where he went."
Hill gave a slight nod, her gaze sharp. "Has anyone ever tried to buy information about Ivan or his father from you?"
Yegor's expression remained calm, but there was steel in his voice. "You shouldn't ask me that. You know better than anyone—whether someone did or not, I wouldn't tell you." Their eyes locked, each seeing through the other's defenses.
After a long silence, Hill nodded again. "Alright. Sorry to disturb you."
"I won't see you out."
Hill stepped out into the cold Moscow air and slid into her car. She sat motionless behind the wheel, lost in thought, before finally starting the engine. The drive back to Washington was long, but she returned with two playing cards clutched in her hand.
Meanwhile, in Tokyo Bay, Hawkeye stared dumbfounded at the seabed survey report in the quinjet. The tank was gone. Vanished. A local technician scratched his head, equally baffled. "A tank that size—dozens of tons—even with ocean currents, it couldn't have drifted far from the impact point. We've expanded the search area again and again, but there's no trace of it."
Barton frowned. Something wasn't right. The drop point was confirmed, so where did it go? Could it have... driven away? He shook his head at the absurd thought, turned to relay the news, and led his team to investigate the origin.
The stadium bore the brunt of the bombing. Half of it stood intact, while the other half lay in ruins, charred marks still fresh. Two point three kilometers later, Barton arrived at his destination. The bombed armored vehicles were still there, alongside crushed police cars and civilian vehicles.
From outside the villa, Barton could still make out the tank's tracks—a wide, straight path cleaving through remnants of buildings and landscaping. The bodies had been cleared away, but the outlines drawn on the ground made him avert his eyes. After a few steps, he couldn't hold back the question. "How many died here?"
"Twelve at the entrance—throats slit with sharp weapons. Twenty at the second scene—four shot, the rest beaten to death. Seventeen at the third scene—shot. And at the center of the villa, one person killed. Cause of death... unknown."
Barton's eyes twitched repeatedly as he listened, and in the end, he couldn't help but frown. "Why?"
"Because... the body at the fourth scene was crushed by the tank." Barton's face twisted as the implication sank in. What did a body crushed by a tank look like? He didn't know, and he didn't want to know. The man beside him added quietly, "This is just the scene from the main entrance."
That night, another attack came from the back door. The scene there was pure chaos—bodies everywhere. One hundred and thirty-two people dead, either shot or blown to pieces." Barton raised an eyebrow. "One person killed over a hundred? That's hard to believe."
The local agent nodded grimly. "It's the truth. They died so fast, it's like they didn't even try to fight back. Just thinking about it... it's terrifying."
Barton frowned and stepped further into the wreckage. He couldn't wrap his head around how two intruders had wiped out nearly two hundred people in under ten minutes. The local agent gestured toward a ruined room. "This is where the tank appeared."
Barton glanced around. "There's no underground chamber here?"
"None. Hundreds of cops had this place surrounded. They saw the tank burst out of nowhere—no warning, no explanation." Barton exhaled deeply. He couldn't make sense of it either. Still, he knew this was a case for S.H.I.E.L.D. Whatever happened here, it was beyond normal—sci-fi, paranormal, maybe even magical.
With so few clues to go on, Barton didn't linger. After two hours of exchanging information with the local agent, he boarded the quinjet and headed back to Washington.
Meanwhile, S.H.I.E.L.D. was closing in. Their investigation was in full swing, casting a wide net. It felt like they were about to reel in their big catch: Hong Fei.
But Hong Fei wasn't sweating it. High above the clouds, he was calmly enjoying his cultivation time. In fact, he was savoring it. Cultivating Qi wasn't difficult—meditation was the quietest method, combat the most practical, and sudden enlightenment the fastest.
Combat wasn't exactly feasible on a plane, and enlightenment wasn't something you could force. So Hong Fei meditated. Unlike his usual calm energy, the Qi inside him felt alive, almost restless, as if it could burst out at any moment.
The meditation itself was simple—letting the Qi inside him fuse with his breath, absorbing a tiny fraction of the air with every inhalation. The process was slow, but the growth was undeniable. Hong Fei wasn't afraid of taking his time; he was afraid of not knowing how to move forward at all.
The ten-hour flight passed in what felt like an instant. When Hong Fei stepped off the plane, he was brimming with energy. He exhaled, and a thick puff of mist hung in the air. This was Northern Europe, and the temperature had dipped to minus five degrees Celsius. Locals were bundled in down jackets, but Hong Fei wore nothing but a black shirt.
He didn't feel the cold, but noticing the curious glances from passersby, he pretended to shiver, hugging his arms. A few people chuckled warmly. At the airport, he bought a khaki coat, slipped it on, and hailed a taxi to his hotel.
Just as he set his luggage down, his phone rang. It was Dr. Helen Cho. He answered without hesitation.
"You..." Her voice trailed off, uncertain.
Hearing her voice sound a bit hesitant, Hong Fei immediately reassured her. "It's me. Go ahead—our call isn't being monitored."
On the other end, Dr. Cho let out a relieved breath. Then, her tone laced with worry, she asked, "Are you okay?"
Hong Fei smiled. "Never better."
The journey took me from Tokyo to Singapore, then on an unexpected detour to Finland. "Didn't Frank return to the estate?" I asked, then immediately corrected myself. "Wait—maybe he did come back, but I never saw him. It's such a relief to hear you're safe. Since relocating, I've been buried in the lab and only just caught the news."
"Don't overwork yourself," came the warm reply. "I'm perfectly fine here—really, no need to fret. What's your next move? Could you wait a couple days for me?"
"I can rush to make a set of clothes for you first—"
"No, there won't be any more operations for the time being. Take all the time you need with your research."
A quiet sigh of relief. "That's wonderful news."