"Don't use your useless spy tricks on me. Besides, I'm a married man—I've got to keep a respectable distance from the opposite sex."
Carl casually sidestepped Natasha's flirtatious advance, avoiding her like it was second nature.
"I know what you're really trying to ask. Hydra never disappeared. And as for your precious S.H.I.E.L.D., it's been infiltrated for a long time. Most of your agents are unknowingly working for Hydra."
He paused, watching Natasha's reaction closely.
"You want to know why Nick Fury came to me? Earlier today, he was nearly assassinated by a Hydra agent. Barely made it out alive. Now he wants my help to identify the Hydra operatives embedded within S.H.I.E.L.D."
"What?!"
For the first time, Natasha's expression shifted dramatically.
As one of the world's top spies, emotional control was second nature to her. Battles, interrogations—even torture—never cracked her cool exterior. But Carl's words hit her deeper than she expected.
It wasn't just the idea that Hydra still existed, or even that S.H.I.E.L.D. was under threat.
It was the possibility that she'd been working for Hydra all along.
She left the Red Room and joined S.H.I.E.L.D. to escape that very darkness—to redeem herself from the blood on her hands. She'd believed S.H.I.E.L.D. stood for something noble. Something right. But if she had been serving Hydra this entire time… was there really any difference between that and her past in the Red Room?
No, she told herself. Maybe he's lying.
That was the only comfort she could hold onto. Silently, she followed Carl into the car.
Carl, catching the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, allowed himself a brief smirk before returning to his usual calm.
There was no such thing as a perfect person. Not even a master spy like Natasha. Everyone had a weakness. And once you found it, manipulating them became simple.
The car sped through the city and soon pulled up outside the Hudson Group tower. Carl motioned for his men to stay inside while he led Natasha up to the rooftop alone.
Twenty minutes later, a familiar hum cut through the night air, and Tony Stark descended onto the roof in his Iron Man suit—carrying a large metal case.
"Oh, Carl," Tony said with a grin, removing his helmet. "New secretary? She's gorgeous!"
He gave Natasha, clad in sleek black tactical wear, an approving once-over. Typical Tony.
"I'm not like you," Carl replied dryly. "I don't treat my secretary like a part-time date. She's not my secretary—she's my new neighbor. Though she is an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., so don't get any ideas."
Hearing that, Tony's smile faded a bit. "An agent? Great. Just what we need."
With a quick press of a button on the box, Tony changed the subject.
"Well, let's see what our charming Director—who loves spying on everyone's private business—has to say for himself."
A hiss of hydraulics sounded as the case opened, revealing a cramped but very much alive Nick Fury, bruised and bandaged, pushing himself out stiffly.
"My legs are numb, Tony. You ever consider the health of a 60-year-old man who's been shot?"
Tony chuckled. "Hey, that's the only case in the lab that could fit you. Would you rather I flew you across the country exposed? You'd be a popsicle right now. Honestly, numb legs sound like a win."
"Director Fury…"
Natasha stepped forward, her voice quieter than usual, her eyes locked on him.
Seeing him in the flesh, alive and clearly roughed up, meant only one thing: Carl wasn't bluffing.
"Ah, Natasha. You're here too," Fury said, giving her a knowing look. "So, the mission didn't go as planned, huh? Well, forget it. It's canceled."
He glanced at Carl, then back at Natasha, piecing the situation together instantly. Carl had seen through her the moment she made contact.
Even so, Fury couldn't help but feel a twinge of regret. Natasha rarely failed, but this time she had been outplayed in less than a day.
"S.H.I.E.L.D. has really been infiltrated by Hydra?" Natasha asked, still clinging to that last shred of denial.
Fury nodded grimly. "Yes. The situation is worse than we feared. Right now, we need to figure out who's on our side—and who isn't."
He turned to Carl with a formal tone.
"Mr. Carl, Hydra is a global threat. They want to bring down every government and seize control of the world. S.H.I.E.L.D. was built to protect humanity, and it's supported by the international community. For the safety of Earth and everyone on it… I hope you'll share whatever intelligence you have about Hydra."
Carl raised an eyebrow.
Moral guilt trip, huh? Should've seen that coming.
He frowned slightly, then shook his head and began to turn away. "If that's your angle, then this meeting was clearly a mistake. Goodbye."
"Wait—Mr. Carl," Fury called out quickly. "If there's anything you want, we can talk. No rush."
Carl stopped, turned slowly, and smiled faintly.
"Now that's more like it. I let it slide that you sent agents to spy on me. But if you treat me like some pawn again, I'll walk—and you'll get nothing."
He had no illusions about Nick Fury. If the situation were reversed—if Carl were the one vulnerable—Fury wouldn't hesitate to lock him up and rip every secret out of him.
"Mr. Carl, I think you're reading too much into this," Fury said, his tone smooth, face sincere.
Carl didn't waste any more time on polite conversation.
"I want the Super Soldier Serum. A sample. And all the research data behind it."
Fury looked surprised—almost convincingly so.
"The Super Soldier Serum? I think you're mistaken. The last known version was lost with Captain America during World War II. It's all in the history books. S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn't have it."
He offered a diplomatic smile.
"Perhaps you'd prefer something else? Money? Strategic support? I could use my connections to help your company expand."
Carl wasn't buying a word of it.
"Cut the crap. Save your explanations. I want the Super Soldier Serum—whatever versions you've got, even the incomplete ones. Give me that, and I'll give you Hydra's intel. If not? Then this conversation is over."
Of course the original serum was gone. But Carl knew S.H.I.E.L.D.—and the U.S. military—had spent decades creating imitations. Maybe not perfect, but close enough. And he was going to get his hands on them—one way or another.