Fury picked up his coffee and took a sip; it was cold and bitter to the point of astringency.
He put down the cup, picked up the remote on the desk, and turned on the wall display.
The screen lit up, displaying a file.
It was a personnel file; the man in the photo was in his sixties with graying hair and a smile, looking kind and approachable.
Alexander Pierce.
Former Director of S.H.I.E.L.D., current Senior Advisor to the World Security Council.
Fury's mentor, his guide, the person he once trusted most.
But recently, Fury had discovered something.
Not evidence, not definitive clues, just some subtle, hard-to-detect anomalies.
A certain former subordinate of Pierce's had suddenly vanished, a budget report handled by Pierce contained errors that shouldn't have been there, and Pierce's remarks at a security meeting didn't align with the information he had gathered from other channels.
These anomalies, viewed individually, could each be explained.
But put together, they were like strokes of the wrong color on a painting—unnoticeable if one didn't look closely, but once seen, impossible to ignore.
Fury stared at the smiling face on the screen for a long time.
He turned off the screen and walked over to the window.
His reflection appeared in the glass—dark skin, a black eyepatch, and a furrowed brow.
He looked exhausted, but in that lone eye, there was a sharp, uncompromising light.
He had already sent Coulson to investigate.
Coulson was his right-hand man, cautious and tight-lipped; he wouldn't alert the enemy.
Now, he could only wait.
The phone vibrated.
Fury looked down at the screen; Coulson had sent a message.
Fury's eyes narrowed. He grabbed his coat and pushed open the door to his office.
S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters, Underground Archives.
This was where top-secret documents were kept; Coulson stood before a row of iron cabinets, holding a yellowing folder with a complex expression on his face.
When Fury walked in, Coulson didn't look back. Hearing the footsteps, he simply said softly, "Director, you should see this."
Fury walked to his side and took the folder.
It was a mission report from twenty years ago.
Mission code-named "Insight," the content involved researching a new type of global surveillance system—predicting and eliminating "potential threats" through satellites and data analysis.
The author of the report was Alexander Pierce.
Fury flipped through the pages one by one, his brow furrowing deeper.
The conclusion of the report read: "The system is currently not feasible; recommendation is to shelve it indefinitely."
"And this." Coulson handed over another document.
"Lemurian Star. Loaded."
Fury's hand tightened slightly.
The Lemurian Star, a freighter that had sunk in the North Atlantic Ocean five years ago; all the cargo on board had gone to the bottom of the sea.
S.H.I.E.L.D. had been involved in the salvage operation at the time but found nothing of value.
Now it seemed it wasn't that they hadn't found anything, but that it had been hidden.
"Pierce..." Fury whispered.
Coulson looked at him. "Director, what do we do now?"
Fury was silent for a long time.
Then he spoke: "Do nothing."
Coulson was stunned. "What?"
"Do nothing," Fury repeated. "We have no evidence, no hard evidence. Pierce is a Senior Advisor to the World Security Council; without hard evidence, we can't touch him."
He handed the folder back to Coulson.
"Keep investigating, but be careful. If Pierce really is a member of HYDRA, then HYDRA's infiltration of S.H.I.E.L.D. is far deeper than we imagined."
Coulson nodded. "Understood."
The two left the archives and went their separate ways.
What Fury didn't know was that the moment he left his office, his computer was remotely activated.
A line of text appeared on the screen and then vanished, so quickly that even the surveillance system didn't catch it.
By the time Fury returned to his office, it was already three in the morning.
He sat down in his chair and closed his eyes, trying to rest for a moment.
Then the alarm sounded.
A piercing, night-shattering alarm blared from the hallway, from the ceiling speakers, from every corner.
Red lights began to flash, illuminating the entire building.
Fury snapped his eyes open and rushed to the window.
Downstairs, in the direction of the parking lot, gunfire was erupting.
Not just a few shots, but dense, continuous bursts, like the sound of popping corn.
Mingled with screams and explosions, firelight flickered in the night sky.
Natasha's voice came over the comms, urgent yet calm: "Director, headquarters is under attack! The underground parking lot, the lobby, the roof—multiple points have been ascended simultaneously!"
Fury slammed his fist against the wall. "Who?"
"HYDRA!" Natasha's voice carried a hint of gritted teeth. "It's HYDRA! They opened the defense systems from the inside!"
Fury's eyes narrowed.
"Natasha, how long can you hold out?"
"I don't know!" Natasha's voice was half-drowned out by gunfire. "There are too many of them, and they have heavy weapons—"
The communication cut off.
Fury stood by the window, watching the shadows flooding into the building below, his mind racing.
HYDRA chose to strike tonight. Why? Because Pierce knew he had started investigating him? Or because they had planned to strike tonight all along?
It didn't matter anymore; what mattered was that they were here.
On a quiet street on the outskirts of Washington, Steve and Bucky had just come out of the training Base and were heading back to their residence.
Steve was driving, and Bucky was in the passenger seat, holding a bottle of water and taking an occasional sip.
Neither of them spoke, but that silence was not awkwardness, but the kind of unspoken understanding found only between comrades of many years.
Steve's phone rang.
He glanced at the screen—it was Fury.
"Director?"
Fury's voice was urgent and low. "Steve, S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters is under attack. It's HYDRA. I need you both to get here immediately."
Steve slammed on the brakes.
"What?"
"No time to explain, just get here."
The call ended.
Steve put down his phone and turned to look at Bucky.
Bucky had already set down the water bottle; the laziness was gone from his gray-blue eyes, replaced by a sharp light, ready for battle.
"HYDRA," Steve said.
Bucky's hand tightened slightly. "They finally couldn't hold back anymore?"
"Yeah."
Steve pulled a U-turn, the tires screaming as the car sped off toward the S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters.
But before they could arrive, they were intercepted halfway.
As the car drove down a quiet street, a person was standing in the middle of the road.
A young man with silver-white hair that shimmered coldly under the streetlights. He wore a dark tracksuit, hands in his pockets, with a cynical smile playing on his lips.