"Were you saying something, sir?"
Howard, leaning on Reed for support, glanced at him curiously after hearing him mutter under his breath.
Of course, Reed had no intention of revealing the existence of the system to anyone. In fact, ever since Alfred had become his first role, Reed had decided that unless absolutely necessary, he would continue appearing to others only as Alfred.
"It's nothing. I was just thinking how terrifying that man was. Why would someone like that come after you?"
Howard fell silent at Reed's words. He too was puzzled. He had certainly made plenty of enemies over the years, but a super soldier of that caliber? That wasn't someone your average rival could deploy. Unless… it was related to one of his other, more hidden enemies.
But Howard didn't have time to dwell on the thought.
When the two of them returned to the Stark car, they discovered that Maria Stark had already passed away.
Her face and skull had been crushed by repeated blows from the Winter Soldier. That she had even been able to speak Howard's name one last time before dying—that, in itself, was a miracle.
"No! No, Maria! Don't leave me!"
Howard collapsed beside her body, sobbing as if his entire world had crumbled.
The sheer grief in his voice moved Reed in a way he hadn't expected. Up until this point, he had considered these people no more than fictional characters—but now, it struck him.
This wasn't a comic book world. It wasn't a movie. It wasn't some safe, brightly colored fantasy.
This was real.
A brutal, dangerous reality—more vicious than the one he had come from.
"My condolences, Mr. Stark."
Guided by Alfred's instincts, Reed stood silently beside Howard, hands folded in front of him as he observed a moment of silence for the departed woman.
His roleplay sync ticked upward slightly in response.
Not long after, worn down by grief and exhaustion, Howard passed out atop Maria's body. Reed gently moved him to the front passenger seat, then waited quietly by the vehicle.
In the movies, the Winter Soldier had attacked Howard during an unguarded moment—but Reed believed that, as one of the founders of S.H.I.E.L.D., Howard would still be under at least some level of observation, even if he no longer directly managed S.H.I.E.L.D. affairs.
Sure enough, within the hour, a S.H.I.E.L.D. Quinjet descended nearby.
Two agents emerged from the ramp: a broad-shouldered Black man and a sharp-eyed Mediterranean-looking agent.
"Nick Fury and Coulson?" Reed muttered, watching from a distance.
At this point in time, Fury hadn't yet become the director of S.H.I.E.L.D.—he was still an elite agent. And Coulson, his eternally overworked assistant, would probably remain on the front lines unless Fury himself kicked the bucket someday.
"Good evening, sir. Thank you for saving Mr. Stark."
Fury approached Reed and extended his hand. Reed shook it, but a curious idea came to him. He wanted to see how these agents handled being put on the spot.
"I couldn't just stand by and do nothing," he said calmly. "But who are you people, exactly? A private jet like that… You can't be with Stark Industries."
Neither Fury nor Coulson flinched. Clearly, they had rehearsed their cover story in advance.
Coulson stepped forward, flashing an FBI badge.
"We're with a special division of the FBI focused on the protection of high-profile individuals. Please don't mention our involvement to anyone."
The FBI, of course.
Reed wasn't surprised. But he couldn't help thinking this kind of overused false identity was probably why S.H.I.E.L.D. had such a strained relationship with other U.S. intelligence agencies.
Still, he played along.
"I see. Don't worry—I won't say a word. But… would you mind giving me a lift to Gotham City? My car is... well…"
He gestured toward the wreckage of the Wayne family's luxury vehicle. Riddled with bullet holes, it was barely recognizable.
And this was a remote stretch of countryside. No taxis were going to come by.
"No problem."
Fury didn't hesitate. In fact, they had already planned to monitor the old gentleman more closely and investigate his background.
With that, Reed accompanied Fury and Coulson to New York Presbyterian Hospital, where they handed Howard over to the doctors. From there, they flew Reed directly to the rear grounds of Wayne Manor in the Quinjet.
After dropping him off, the Quinjet lifted off again without any further exchange.
In the air, Coulson received a data file containing everything known about Alfred Pennyworth.
"What a waste," Fury said, flipping through the file. "The Pennyworth family really assigned a former MI6 super-agent to a family butler role? That's throwing gold into the fire."
Other than that, the report didn't show anything suspicious. From what he could tell, Alfred rescuing Howard Stark really did seem like coincidence. It was safe to table this case for now.
The more pressing concern was: who had orchestrated the assassination attempt on Howard?
As Fury pondered the possibilities, Coulson found himself staring out the window at the Gotham skyline.
By day, Gotham was as bustling as New York. But by night, it was ruled by crime.
Coulson had read Alfred's file, and through that, he had gained a better understanding of the city.
With the Wayne family's young heir still missing, only Alfred remained.
And Coulson didn't believe any butler could sustain the Wayne empire alone. If the Wayne Group fell, and was taken over by capital and crime, Gotham would plunge even deeper into chaos.
"Coulson," Fury's voice broke into his thoughts. "No need to overthink this."
Gotham was the kind of place that gave you a headache just hearing the name. The city was so complicated it could swallow even the best agents whole.
FBI, CIA, even S.H.I.E.L.D.—they had all tried to investigate Gotham at some point.
Those agents either turned up nothing, or they vanished without a trace once they got in too deep.
It wasn't just a city.
It was its own world.
And right now, none of them had the power or influence to change how things worked in Gotham.