"Hill, send the items you retrieved for analysis, then head back to New York with Coulson. Barton, keep a close eye on the salvage and exploration operations in Tokyo Bay, and dig deeper into the background of that deceased individual."
"Yes, sir!"
"Coulson, once you're back in New York, take the initiative to visit his estate and inspect it. Natasha, your task is to infiltrate it covertly. His residence probably isn't as clean as it seems."
Coulson and Natasha exchanged a glance and responded in unison, "Understood, Director!"
Fury added, "Natasha, stay safe."
She smiled back at him. "I will."
If the Tokyo Bay incident was a slap in the face for the U.S. and Japan, for The Hand, the true victims, it felt like someone had taken a stick and rammed it straight from their chrysanthemum into their mouth—painful and utterly revolting. The Five Fingers had jointly led The Hand for centuries.
Since breaking away from K'un-Lun, they had faced countless hardships and life-or-death crises, but never anything like this. To put it bluntly, Murakami's death was gruesome. Not only was there no intact corpse, but not even a single organ or tissue remained intact—he was reduced to an unidentifiable puddle of mush.
What made matters worse was that the incident had gone viral worldwide. If Murakami's true identity were uncovered, The Hand's operations would face severe repercussions. As a result, the remaining four fingers quickly convened to devise a solution. Murakami was beyond saving, so the immediate priority was ensuring no one could trace the incident back to The Hand.
After a brief but intense discussion, Bakuto, Madame Gao, Sowande, and Alexandra decided to sever all ties with Murakami. Even if it meant accepting temporary losses, it was preferable to complete exposure.
Their operations thrived in the shadows, and it was crucial they remained hidden from public scrutiny. After all, no one could predict whether K'un-Lun might come knocking in the future. Besides, these old-timers had plenty of time and could afford the losses.
Next on the agenda was identifying the perpetrator. Their investigation led them to the recent violent clashes with the Russian Mafia in New York—conflicts orchestrated by a shadowy figure working behind the scenes. The mastermind behind it all was none other than the infamous vigilante, The Punisher, Frank Castle.
Now, let's turn to Hong Fei.
While the victims and related parties were scrambling to investigate, Hong Fei was enjoying himself in Europe. Door-to-door delivery was straightforward: rent a warehouse, manifest a tank, and the job was done. Buyers typically took two to three days to receive and inspect the goods, which gave him ample travel time.
Since S.H.I.E.L.D. was keeping tabs on him, it made sense to play along. So, Hong Fei embraced the role of a tourist wholeheartedly.
One day, while strolling through the streets, he received an inquiry email: "Tokyo Bay—was that you?" The sender was the buyer who had just taken delivery of the tank. Hong Fei checked the payment status, saw it was complete, and promptly blocked the sender.
You're buying a tank—why so many questions? Still, this confirmed that the Tokyo Bay incident had blown up to the point where nearly everyone was aware of it. The viral videos weren't fake; footage of a tank outpacing sports cars, firing mid-air, and charging forward had already become iconic.
But none of this stopped Hong Fei from continuing to sell tanks.
The viral video could hardly be called anything but an unconventional advertisement. Someone had the audacity to drive a tank through Tokyo's streets—buy one, and you could too. Hong Fei tucked his phone away, his steps buoyant. A day later, as dusk settled, Big Head hunched over his computer, fingers flying across the keyboard. Lines of code flickered on the screen, a dizzying blur of activity.
The intercom on his desk crackled to life. "Sir, there's a visitor claiming to be FBI." Samuel's head snapped up, a glint in his eyes. They're finally here. He shut down the computer, rose, and strode to the window. Raising his binoculars, he scanned the main entrance.
Coulson stood there, hands clasped, sunglasses shielding his eyes, a broad smile plastered across his face. "Domineering... or just ridiculous?" Big Head muttered. Wait, haven't I seen this act before? His Psychic Power wasn't limited to words—it could transmit images, videos, even entire scenarios. A flicker of recognition crossed his mind. "Let him in."
With a thought, he reached out to Number Two, his psychic voice echoing in the other's mind. "An outsider's here. Go greet him. I'll guide you through it." In his current state, meeting guests was out of the question. At the entrance, Coulson was ushered inside. Number Two hurriedly changed into fresh clothes, slicked back his hair, and practiced his smile in the mirror.
He cut a surprisingly imposing figure. The men, from Number One to Number Five, had transformed in less than a year—former soldiers, men broken by tragedy, now reborn with a newfound poise. Coulson approached, his footsteps measured.
Number Two waited by the door, timing his move. The moment felt right, and he stepped out with a warm smile, extending his hand as he closed the distance. "Welcome, honored guest." Coulson blinked, momentarily caught off guard, but shook his hand smoothly. "Apologies for the intrusion."
"Not at all, please come in." They crossed the threshold. Coulson's eyes roamed the expansive interior, taking in the opulent decor. "Impressive," he murmured. Number Two, guided by Big Head's whispered instructions, responded with practiced grace. After a round of polite exchanges, they settled into seats. Coulson produced his FBI badge. "Agent Coulson. I'm here to speak with the owner of this place. We met in Singapore recently."
Number Two nodded. "Ah, yes. Unfortunately, Sir is traveling the world and hasn't returned yet. A pity." Coulson's smile didn't waver. "That's unfortunate, but no matter. May I ask—aside from Mr. Hong, do you have decision-making authority here?"
Before Number Two could respond, Dr. Helen Cho's voice cut through the room. "Do we have a visitor?" Upstairs, Big Head groaned, slapping his forehead as her face appeared on the monitor. "Why now?" he muttered. Quickly, he relayed instructions. "Number Two, stand up. Now."
Number Two rose immediately, bowing slightly to Dr. Cho. "Dr. Cho, this is FBI Agent Coulson." At the mention of the FBI, her brows arched. Coulson stood as well, extending a hand. "Ms. Cho."
She recovered swiftly, her smile warm and polished. "Hello, please sit." Her gaze shifted to Coulson. "I don't know what I can help you with?" Upstairs, Big Head exhaled in relief. Dr. Cho's composure was flawless—she slipped into the role of hostess effortlessly, her tone and demeanor impeccable. After a moment's consideration, he reached out to her with his Psychic Power, careful not to disrupt her performance.