The return flight from Tunisia was quiet—too quiet.
Inside the jet, Alexander sat in the rear compartment, his gaze fixed on the crate Noctis had recovered. The faded SHIELD insignia, slashed through with a jagged HYDRA mark, pulsed in his mind like an echo of betrayal. It wasn't just a crate. It was proof.
Proof that the enemy wasn't just out there.
It was within.
Shadows pooled around his boots as he sat still, arms resting on his thighs, head slightly bowed. The hum of the engines was a dull background throb to the louder weight of realization anchoring his thoughts.
Across the aisle, Vasili monitored comm traffic through a secured channel. Lines of green text streamed across his tablet as he deciphered frequency shifts and call traces. "No chatter about the facility. SHIELD's pretending it never existed. But there's an increase in encrypted communications between Europe and D.C. Almost all routed through black sites. Someone's covering tracks."
Alexander didn't respond immediately. He didn't have to. The tension in his jawline said enough. But when he did speak, it was cold. "They're scared."
Noctis hovered silently near the rear hatch, his translucent form pulsing with a faint blue glow. "They'll move soon," he said quietly. "They know you've seen too much. They won't wait long."
"We move first," Alexander replied, his voice low and even. "We go to Washington."
The Triskelion towered over the Potomac like a monument to control, its sleek design gleaming under the morning light. From the outside, it was pristine. Functional. Imposing. A gleaming symbol of order.
Inside, Director Fury stood alone in the war room, the walls dimmed and the holograms inactive. Only one screen was lit—a still image of the black-clad operative captured from a drone feed near Tunisia. The image was grainy, but the silhouette was familiar to Fury: lean build, perfect stance, masked. Professional. It wasn't just the skills—it was the absence of record that bothered him.
Maria Hill entered quietly, tablet in hand. Her steps were brisk but measured. "We cross-checked every file. That operative doesn't exist. No military record. No SHIELD clearance. Nothing. He's invisible."
Fury didn't look away from the image. "Which means," he said slowly, "he's one of theirs."
Hill's jaw tightened. "HYDRA?"
Fury nodded once. "It's starting."
Hill hesitated, then tapped the tablet, switching the feed. A surveillance still appeared—Alexander stepping off a cloaked jet, the ruins of the Sentinel facility smoldering behind him.
"What about him?" she asked.
Fury stared for a moment longer. "We don't make a move. Not yet. He's our unknown. Let him walk into the storm. If he survives, maybe we'll have a clearer view of the battlefield."
Hill nodded slowly. "And if he doesn't?"
"Then we'll know who the storm belongs to."
Later that night, Alexander, Noctis, and Vasili stood on a rooftop across the river from the Triskelion. The lights shimmered in the glass façade. To anyone else, it looked like any other high-tech government building.
But they knew better.
Alexander held the crate in his hand, studying it under the moonlight. Dust coated the worn metal. The painted logo of SHIELD had been violently scratched and overwritten. "This isn't just about secrets," he said. "It's about control. HYDRA isn't infiltrating SHIELD. They've already taken pieces of it."
Vasili checked his pistol's chamber, then slipped it back into his holster. "So, we tear those pieces out."
Noctis floated above the rooftop railing, his silhouette fading into mist. "Quietly. If we go loud, they'll vanish into the walls."
Alexander nodded. Then, without a word, he hurled the crate into the Potomac below. It spun once in the air before splashing into the black water, sending ripples across the river. The symbol vanished beneath the surface.
"We infiltrate," he said. "We find their roots. And we cut them."
The three of them stood there for a long moment, silent. A calm before a storm they all knew was coming.
But before they could move, Vasili's comm buzzed sharply—an encrypted alert.
He answered, tone tense. "This is Vasili."
A voice—distorted but unmistakably urgent—cut through. "Unknown signal just breached internal SHIELD firewall. Targeted upload. East Coast servers. Origin unknown. Autonomous code. AI fingerprint detected."
Alexander turned instantly. "Put it on screen."
Vasili synced the data to a portable display, his fingers flying across the keys.
A line of code appeared—elegant, layered, and deliberately constructed. It pulsed once. Then decrypted on its own.
Coordinates filled the screen.
And a name followed.
"Zola."
Alexander's eyes narrowed.
The game had changed.
Again.
End of Chapter 91
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