The office smelled like old whiskey and newer fear. Dim lighting spilled across the hardwood floor, illuminating the polished surface of a mahogany desk stacked with legal files—some real, most forged. The clock on the wall ticked in a slow, measured beat, like it knew exactly how much time everyone in this room had left.
James Wesley, tailored to Wall Street mediocrity in a charcoal suit, walked in with the charm of a man who hadn't smiled since Lehman Brothers collapsed. He tossed his leather briefcase on the desk, tugged off his tie like it had committed treason, and poured himself a drink with all the gentleness of a man about to call a hit. The glass hit the desk.
Then she appeared.
No footsteps. No warning. Just her—Daisy, legs crossed, throne-worthy in a crimson silk pantsuit, lounging in his chair like she'd bought the lease on his soul and was waiting for escrow to clear.
Wesley blinked. "Who the hell—"
His hand darted toward the drawer. The one with the gun.
The desk exploded.
A ripple—no, a pulse—of sound and force cracked the oak straight down the middle. Splinters flew. His drink shattered. The drawer warped shut like it knew better.
Seraphina rose smoothly, unbothered. "That was antique trash, James. But thank you for your contribution to kinetic art."
He staggered back. "You—what—how?"
She tilted her head, her hair catching the lamplight. Her eyes locked onto him with the precision of a sniper. "Still trying to draw conclusions after the bullets fly. How very… mortal of you."
Recognition slowly crawled across his face. "Wait. I think I know you."
Wesley glanced down at the shattered desk, then back to her. "Are you a mutant?"
"God, I hope not. Their politics are a mess." She sauntered closer, heels silent. "I'm just... exceptional."
He recovered quickly—too quickly. The man was loyal, smart, and had the emotional range of a spreadsheet. He straightened his jacket. "If you came here to kill me, you're doing a very slow job of it."
Daisy smiled. "If I came to kill you, you wouldn't even have time to regret your haircut."
His jaw tightened. "You here on Fisk's orders?"
She let the silence stretch. Then: "No. Wilson's sipping brandy on a Spanish terrace and pretending he's not being watched by three governments. And you? You're here, playing dead in a city that's about to wake up angry."
"I'm loyal to Mr. Fisk."
She leaned in, close enough for him to feel the chill in her breath. "I'm not asking for betrayal, Mr. Wesley. I'm offering purpose. You're wasted in his shadow. I could give you something that matters."
"And what exactly do you 'give'?"
"A future. Power. Clean hands, if you play nice. Or a closed casket, if you don't."
Wesley's eyes narrowed. "You think threats will win me over?"
She sighed like a disappointed teacher. Then flicked two fingers.
His chest seized.
Not pain, not quite. But a vibration—a quaking in his ribcage like his heart had been plucked and tuned to her frequency. His knees gave slightly.
She let it go.
He stumbled back into the wall. "What the hell was that?"
"A hello."
"You're insane."
"Probably. But I'm rich in ambition, and that makes it fashionable."
He breathed heavily, but his gaze steadied. "Fine. Say I listen. What's in it for me?"
"Leverage. Influence. I'm building something that isn't shackled to street-level thuggery. We're talking data—deep, dangerous data. Predictive modeling, criminal disruption, international blacklists. Things even the NSA wishes it had. But I need someone to speak the language of polite corruption. You."
"You need a suit."
"I need a shark in Armani. Someone who can swim in boardrooms without bleeding."
He mulled it over. "And Fisk?"
"When he returns, you return to him. If that's still what you want."
He didn't answer. She could feel it—his heartbeat was betraying him. It had started erratic, alarmed. Now it pulsed with the tempo of someone seeing opportunity. Desire. A man who wanted to matter.
"You're not offering me power," he said. "You're offering me relevance."
"Same difference."
He straightened his glasses. "Three conditions."
She gestured. "Hit me."
"One: I don't betray Fisk."
"Of course not. I'm not asking you to assassinate Santa Claus."
"Two: I collaborate. I don't serve."
"You're my consigliere, not my lapdog."
"Three: The moment he returns, I walk."
Daisy gave a half-smile. "Fine. But a lot can change in a few years."
She had a point. Vanity and ambition were Wesley's true compass. And if the spotlight got bright enough, loyalty might just... fade.
"Great. Now let's talk tasks."
She launched into her pitch about big data—how it wasn't rocket science, more like weaponized Excel. Wesley, with his Ivy League polish and sharp mind, caught on fast. He saw the potential. It wasn't just flashy—it was genius. Much more interesting than demolition and blackmail.
"This stuff's only useful to big players," he noted.
"Exactly," Daisy said. "Your job? Talk to the suits. The CEOs. The government guys. You've got the polish. Use it."
He was halfway in—until he heard how broke the company was. A few thousand dollars in the account? His enthusiasm took a nosedive.
"That's why I need you to open doors," she said, unfazed.
Wesley raised an eyebrow. "What if those doors don't open politely? You expecting me to break them down?"
She gave him a look. "Mr. Wesley, you're not the only one who's made threats. But this country's not lawless. If the government really wanted to shut people like me down, they'd just send a few elite agents and be done with it."
She checked her watch, pulled out a piece of paper. "Anyway. If you're still in tomorrow, meet me here. If not—well, I'll come looking for you."
Then, as she turned to leave, she flicked her fingers one last time—just enough vibration to rattle the frames on the wall. A whisper of her presence.
She stepped into the night.
Probability of cooperation: 70%.
She felt his emotional waveform. He started angry, turned anxious, then settled into reluctant curiosity. A promising arc.
Halfway down the street, she slid into her beat-up Ford. The irony was sweet. A Queen in a chariot of rust.
The engine turned over. Just as she reached for the radio—
The passenger door opened.
A man slid in, smelling like secrets and gunpowder. Leather trench coat. One eye hidden beneath a patch. The other sharp as razors.
She blinked. "If this is a carjacking, I'd at least like a dramatic speech first."
Nick Fury didn't smile. "We need to talk."
To be continued...
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