Dark. Deep. Silent…
Walking through such a place, Agent Coulson felt no fear. In fact, he was unusually calm, silently reviewing the task Director Fury had assigned him.
Two months ago, a wave of violent murders broke out across multiple districts in New York.
The victims all bore similar wounds—ripped apart, gnawed on, as if by something with fangs.
It didn't make sense.
These crimes happened in bustling urban areas, far from the wilderness. There had been no reports of escaped predators from any nearby zoos. No one could imagine a wild animal daring to invade human territory and hunt so brazenly.
Yet when the local police and FBI conducted their investigations, they found nothing.
That caught S.H.I.E.L.D.'s attention.
They deployed specialized tech and forensics beyond the scope of any civilian agency, but in the end… still nothing.
Fury was convinced something more was going on. And given the public panic these cannibal cases had caused, he sent his most trusted agent: Coulson.
At first, Coulson hadn't thought much of it.
S.H.I.E.L.D. was built to handle the extraordinary. He'd dealt with all kinds of supernatural incidents. This one? Just another case file.
But two weeks of relentless investigation—using methods far beyond current forensic standards—had produced zero leads.
And the attacks kept happening, more frequently, more violently. Public outcry exploded.
Under pressure, law enforcement and S.H.I.E.L.D. increased their efforts.
Still, no results.
With no other options, Coulson decided to reach out to an old contact.
"Old friend" might've been a stretch. They'd only worked together twice before.
The man in question was a young adult, around twenty, of Asian descent. His background was a mystery. He ran an all-purpose fixer shop out of Hell's Kitchen—you pay, he solves problems.
That said…
He had principles.
Not exactly a model citizen, but someone with his own moral code—someone who could distinguish right from wrong, and operated within that blurry line of street ethics.
Coulson had first noticed him during an unrelated case. With his help, the problem had been resolved smoothly.
Their second collaboration? Same result.
Now came the third.
Truth be told, Coulson would rather not deal with him again.
The guy was too mysterious.
No one knew where he came from, who his family was, or what he really wanted. Even pulling Director-level clearance at S.H.I.E.L.D. only revealed that the man had appeared in Manhattan a year ago and opened a small convenience shop in Hell's Kitchen.
Everything else? A blank slate.
It was like he'd materialized out of thin air.
Working with someone like that made Coulson uneasy. It always felt like the man was the one pulling strings in the background.
Maybe that's just a side effect of being a spy—always suspicious.
His thoughts were interrupted by a faint glow in the distance.
Coulson stopped in front of a narrow street-facing window. The shop was barely two meters wide. A small neon sign hung beside it, with the words "Anything Agency" in both English and foreign characters.
"Is he from the East?" Coulson wondered, eyeing the characters on the sign.
"Yo, Coulson!"
A young man leaned out from the service window, cigarette dangling from his lips, flashing a relaxed smile.
Coulson turned without flinching, keeping a friendly look on his face. "Mr. Lucian Black. Good evening."
"Not that good," the man replied, grin widening as if amused.
"If business were better, I wouldn't be up every night 'til 2 AM. But hey, that's life. Gotta hustle to survive."
"Then why not come work for us?" Coulson asked lightly. "S.H.I.E.L.D. may not offer luxury, but the paycheck beats what you're doing now."
"That's… debatable."
Coulson raised an eyebrow. "You have a different opinion, Mr. Black?"
Lucian took a drag, exhaled slowly, and said, "Sure, my place is tiny, hidden, and yeah, most people think I'm a scam artist. But every once in a while, I land a big job. Just one of those can let me live like royalty for a year or two."
Coulson's smile faltered just a bit. "You're joking. Who pays a guy like you for big jobs?"
"Why, you do," Lucian said, casually snubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray. "Aren't you here to bring me a big payday?"
Coulson paused, then smiled again. "So you already know why I'm here?"
"Those cannibal attacks all over the news lately."
"Then you know something?"
"I wouldn't say I know the truth. But I have some information."
Lucian pulled out a credit card reader and held it up. "Two hundred grand. The intel's yours."
"Two hundred thousand?!" Coulson stared at him, stunned. "Have you lost your mind? What kind of information is worth that much?"
"If it's not worth it, your agency can freeze my account," Lucian said with a shrug. "We've worked together twice now. Don't you trust me a little?"
"We know absolutely nothing about you. If—"
"If you don't trust me, you're free to leave," Lucian interrupted, casually gesturing toward the alley.
Coulson stared at him.
After a long silence, he said, "Wait here. I need to request funding."
"Take your time."
Lucian grabbed a pack of sunflower seeds from the shelf and started snacking without a care in the world.
Coulson sighed, pulled out his phone, and dialed.
"...That's the situation," he said after explaining everything.
Fury was quiet for a moment. Then his voice came through, low and serious.
"Give him the two hundred. If the intel's useless, we'll freeze his accounts."
"Understood."
"And if you get the chance, try to figure out where he's getting his information."
"Got it."
The call ended.
Coulson looked up at Lucian—who was watching a reality show and cracking seeds like this was all just background noise.
"They approved it," he said.
He stepped to the counter, swiped his card through the reader, and punched in the code. "Now, can you tell me what you know?"
Lucian waited for the transaction to go through. When the confirmation beep came, he smiled.
"Coulson, have you ever heard of demons?"