London's dry, icy air compelled pedestrians to pull their coats tighter. The architecture and clothing alike were cast in muted shades of gray, painting the entire city like a dried-up block of lead-colored pigment on an artist's palette.
Anyone used to life in New York would find London unsettling. Here, there was no skull-piercing sunlight hot enough to sear the brain, nor the relentless charge of oversized trucks barrelling through intersections. Instead, deep red double-decker buses strolled proudly along the streets.
Seated inside a café, the sorcerer idly observed the sparsely populated street before him. Even after enduring the entire winter, the plump, gray pigeons hadn't shed a single ounce of weight. They strutted about with arrogant authority, pecking at the hems of passing pedestrians.
But London's spring chill didn't dampen Solomon's mood. On the contrary, he relished the crisp, dry air.
"An average daily temperature of just four degrees Celsius, incredibly dry air, and less than 48 millimeters of precipitation," he mused, taking a sip of his tea with a contented expression.
This café was one of his frequent haunts, and as such, he had stored an exceptionally expensive jar of honey here. Every time he visited, the manager would add some to his tea. The person sitting across from him, fortunate enough to partake in this luxurious sweetness, raised an eyebrow.
"You should drink some tea," Solomon advised, refusing the milk the waiter had offered. "Keep your skin hydrated. This environment isn't kind to it."
The waiter was clearly new—anyone familiar with Solomon knew that he never added milk to his tea. The debate over whether to add milk before or after pouring tea had sparked numerous discussions among the British, each faction holding firm to its belief.
The main schools of thought were: first, adding milk before tea; second, adding tea before milk; third, skipping milk entirely; and fourth, adding milk, then tea, then milk again, until the cup overflowed. Solomon had initially subscribed to the fourth method—until an unfortunate incident left him covered in tea. Since then, he had firmly aligned himself with the third.
"You've been quite the busy man," said Agent Romanoff, flashing a dazzling smile. "But I've only just managed to slip away from Capitol Hill myself. Those politicians are desperate to start trouble."
"Fury won't come see me himself?" Solomon smirked. "Worried about all the guns waiting at three thousand feet above his head?"
"No one knows where you stashed those three Helicarriers," Natasha replied, stirring her tea absentmindedly. "Imagine a frog jumping on a scorching hot iron plate—that's what Congress and the White House look like right now.
"You stole too much. Far too much. Enough to make people nervous. You now have the power to wipe out an entire nation. What else could you possibly want?"
"I have a feeling Fury is nearby."
"He kept his promise—he didn't reveal your name," Natasha admitted, exhaling in exasperation. "But I've been the one cleaning up your mess. Have you even watched the news? Did you hear me trying to explain to Congress how three massive warships simply vanished into thin air?
"We could explain away the missing overseas Helicarrier bases—but this? No one can explain it. Unless you step forward yourself."
"Oh, my dear," Solomon chuckled. "Is this how you treat your savior?"
"I knew what Pierce's biometric badge really was—I was prepared," Natasha countered. Her original plan had been to use a taser to short-circuit it. But in the end, Solomon had simply removed it, crushing Alexander Pierce's last safeguard with ease.
When the military finally took control of the Triskelion, they discovered a headless corpse in the council chamber. A forensic examination confirmed that it belonged to Alexander Pierce, former Secretary-General of the World Security Council.
Fingerprint analysis found an unregistered print at the scene—one that didn't exist in any known database. And despite intense questioning, Natasha Romanoff had been unable to provide a satisfactory explanation.
In truth, she couldn't explain anything at all.
From the very start, Congress's investigation into S.H.I.E.L.D. had been a mess. Fury had buried everything. The only information they had access to was whatever Fury had allowed them to see. The so-called "investigation" was doomed from the start.
And since S.H.I.E.L.D. had technically been a U.N.-sanctioned organization, every member nation had the right to conduct its own inquiry. At the same time, no country was willing to let the U.S. take charge of the investigation—who knew what secrets were still buried within S.H.I.E.L.D.'s records?
Everything had become a tangled web of unanswered questions.
Congress wanted to know what had happened inside that office. They needed answers before other nations could intervene. But the survivors refused to speak. No one was willing to disclose a single shred of useful information.
Of course, Solomon understood perfectly well what had transpired.
After all, he had simply bound everyone present in that room to a contract.
The United States remained in the dark about what had happened, since Councilman Hawley had been replaced by Black Widow herself. As a result, America had no firsthand witnesses.
Solomon had issued a warning to the secular world: He would stand idly by as disaster unfolded. But the moment earthly governments proved incapable of resisting the encroaching darkness, he would take everything from them.
At the time, only Fury and Natasha had taken his declaration seriously. To the rest of the world, holy swords and sacred spears were meaningless relics.
But when Solomon had written his contract using Alexander Pierce's own blood, his stance had been made perfectly clear.
It was a test—a challenge to secular governments, akin to the ancient Greek gods testing their city-states.
A century-long test.
Solomon had time.
He could watch generations rise and fall.
He had to grow accustomed to it. He had to endure it.
The Ancient One had warned him—had suffered under the weight of centuries. And yet Solomon would have to endure even longer.
With nothing but human flesh and a mortal mind, he would have to withstand the unfathomable torment of time itself.
He was to be humanity's last sentinel.
For tens of thousands, maybe even millions of years.
There was no escape.
And this was precisely why Agamotto had thrown his full support behind Solomon—because he was the fail-safe that the Vishanti had chosen for humanity's survival.
"Look further ahead, Natasha," Solomon finally said. "Why don't you tell me how Steve Rogers is doing? I heard he had a little scuffle with an old friend?"
He had long since accepted his fate.
For now, he still had the witch. That was enough.
But the future loomed, terrifying in its inevitability.
Centuries of waiting—for both himself and the secular world.
No one knew what lay ahead.
"Fury doesn't need my help," Solomon mused, "though I am surprised I didn't see that glowing woman. Given the circumstances, I wouldn't have been shocked if Fury had tried to kill me.
"If he'd had the opportunity, he would have taken the shot.
"Because my threshold for acceptable losses is far lower than his."
Other people had to factor in morality and legality.
Solomon only cared about survival.
And yet, Fury had held back.
That had been… unexpected.
The war between S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hydra had retreated into the shadows. On the surface, Natasha and S.H.I.E.L.D. were no longer involved.
Their agents had been absorbed into Stark Industries, permanently barred from intelligence work.
And yet, they continued hunting Hydra in the dark.
That was why Natasha had come—to acquire information.
Fury knew nothing about the conservative Hydra faction.
But he did know that Solomon was now their de facto leader.
Hydra was a corpse of its former self.
And S.H.I.E.L.D. would use its remnants to exterminate the Nazi Hydra faction.
It was an unspoken agreement.
A mutual understanding.
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