My name is Natasha Romanoff.
I am an agent—a professional agent. In my career, failure has always meant death, which is why I have never failed.
The full name of the organization I work for is the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division, but since that's quite a mouthful, we simply call it S.H.I.E.L.D. This is a global espionage and security agency tasked with handling all manner of unusual incidents, often confronting advanced technological, supernatural, or extraterrestrial threats that pose significant risks to human society.
But today, for the first time, I felt troubled.
The reason was a person I needed to evaluate. He was dying from palladium poisoning and had begun to let himself go. A dignified billionaire, running off to participate in racing competitions. As his assistant, I never expected this move. Worse still, during the race, someone attacked him, nearly causing S.H.I.E.L.D.'s future advisor and funder to suffer a fatal accident.
My boss asked me to investigate the reason behind this. Coincidentally, the attacker was Russian. At the Monaco cocktail party that day, there was also a person with Russian influence—Watson Wick, a successful and dangerous man known to official organizations around the world. He vanished from S.H.I.E.L.D.'s surveillance, so S.H.I.E.L.D. targeted his son, a man whose presence in the database was almost nonexistent.
For some reason, I did not want anyone else involved in this investigation. To get close to him, I deliberately walked alone at night, making myself a target for the local pimps. I then escaped and ran two blocks to Privet Drive, ready to approach the target with a weak, feminine demeanor that would arouse a protective instinct.
According to the information, the target is thirty years old, single, and of Slavic descent. Speaking with a Slavic accent should make him feel more at ease. This method always works well when dealing with men. It is a kind of confidence. Although beauty is not my most powerful weapon, it is certainly the most obvious.
But now, I, Natasha Romanoff, a top agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., stood at the door holding a thousand pounds, looking like a door-to-door saleswoman. The point is, I was turned away.
The door closed again, leaving me standing in the wind, disheveled and frustrated. The closed door showed no intention of opening a second time, so I immediately changed my strategy. The most important thing for an agent is her acting skills. The circles under my eyes suddenly turned red. Holding the thousand pounds tightly in my hand, I knocked on the door hard and persistently, creating the image of a strong girl humiliated by money.
If the door did not open, the banging would not stop. This trick is usually very effective.
Finally, the door opened. The little bit of pride in my eyes was well hidden. Just as I was about to speak, John reappeared and said with a surprised look, "You don't want it? Then give it back to me." The banknotes in his hand were not even warmed before he took them back himself. After taking them, John muttered, "It's really strange that you don't even want free money," and closed the door again.
A lot of words were stuck in my throat. Before I could piece together a response, my training as an agent allowed me to quickly regain my composure and maintain my image. Taking a deep breath, my expression lost its previous tenderness and became cold and beautiful. Stroking my red hair, I pressed two fingers to my ear where a hidden earpiece was nestled.
"I think we need to change our strategy," I said.
"That kid is as tricky as his father," came a calm voice through the headset. "Colson has been working in his father's company for ten years and hasn't had much exposure. Have a direct conversation with him and see what he knows. It's best to find out whether the Russian has any connection to him and the whereabouts of his father."
This incident made my immediate boss uneasy. That playboy has the highest priority in the Avengers' plan. When I applied to become Tony Stark's new assistant, aside from evaluating whether he fit with the Avengers, the most important thing was to protect him. Let me make it clear: Tony Stark's high priority has nothing to do with his father being one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s founders.
I could only accept my fate and knocked again, but this time, the door did not open.
I frowned, realizing something was wrong. I stopped just as I was about to touch the door handle. According to the information about this house, there was an inexplicable force that repelled outsiders. I walked to the window and looked in. There were no curtains, and the windows were empty.
The heads of two owls, one black and one white, turned and stared at me as I peered in. They seemed to wonder if I was a voyeur. The man had run away. Even as a professional agent, I could not help but feel a surge of frustration.
Unfortunately, the two pimps who had left earlier returned in a yellow Chevrolet. One of them ran across the lawn and reached for my hair, just as he might have done with other women in the red light district. Only this time, he picked the wrong target. I am not a weak lady; in fact, I am one of the most dangerous women in the world. The anger from being bullied earlier now had an outlet. By the time I left, the two thugs were nearly crippled.
"Report, the target mission has been lost. Contact failed."
"57 13th Street, Manhattan."
As a wizard, it makes sense to have a Floo Network at home. It is a wizard's travel tool, allowing you to reach any fireplace whose name you call from your own fireplace. It is very convenient, and the best part is that no one can detect you. You can travel thousands of miles without ever leaving home. It truly is a must-have for any wizard.
In a warmly decorated house, blue flames burned in the fireplace without any wood. A figure emerged from it. This place is in the bustling Manhattan district of New York. It is also John's parents' house. Relying on magic, he traveled across the country without ever leaving home. Having such a large house in an expensive area is all thanks to his father's hard work.
As an unmotivated kid with an estate in London, John sometimes felt guilty. As for the woman who had displayed her acting skills in front of him, John could guess her identity—an agent. Given the special circumstances of his family, it was not strange to have agents around. When he was still in school, at least twenty agents took turns monitoring his father outside their house every day.
The strange thing was that the agent came here for him. John considered himself very low-key, spending most of his time in the magical world and rarely appearing in front of non-magical people. He was not sure if it was a coincidence, but as soon as he returned, he encountered this drama. It was undeniable that the woman was very beautiful, but John was not the kind of person who would be tempted by beauty.
Entering the New York house, John looked around. No one was there. When he arrived, he did not see his parents, which was odd. Although they had jobs, they should have been home at that time. His sister was not there either.
John was deep in thought when he looked up and saw movement. A golden ring appeared out of thin air, sparkling. On the other side of the ring stood a bald man in a yellow robe.
"Hello, Witch King," the visitor greeted John, her scornful tone full of calm certainty.
John recognized her immediately. In that magnificent world, this person was certainly among the most impressive characters: the Supreme Sorcerer, the Ancient One.