He smiled, sharp teeth gleaming.
"Back there? The alley? The six men conveniently attacking you under a streetlight with perfect sight lines? The way you never once gave off the fear stink normal people do?"
She stiffened, eyes darting.
Ryder's voice dropped, playful but edged.
"Come on, Woman. Just tell me what you actually want. Saves us both time."
The Widow's eyes flicked away, her lips pressing into a thin line. Then, slowly, she exhaled and seemed to relax — like a coiled snake finally unwinding.
"…Alright," she said, her voice dropping the helpless sweetness. It was smooth now, edged with the calm confidence of someone used to command. "You're sharper than most give you credit for, Sukuna… or should I say, whatever you really are beneath that grin."
Ryder's smile only grew wider, faint amusement glittering in his eyes.
"You're not the first to try this sort of act, sweetheart. Won't be the last. Now—" he began, stepping back, about to disappear into the night again.
But she quickly reached out, lightly gripping his wrist. Not in fear. Not even to seduce him this time.
"Wait. Come inside," she said, eyes meeting his directly. "Someone important wants to meet you. Actually important. No more games."
He tilted his head, studying her for any flicker of deceit. Then, after a long moment, he gave a low chuckle.
"Well… that's more honest at least. Lead the way."
She nodded once, her professional mask slipping fully into place. No more fake tears. No more trembling. Just the cool, lethal assurance of a Black Widow operative.
She turned and walked inside, heels silent against the floor, trusting he'd follow. Ryder sighed and rolled his shoulders, then stepped in after her.
'Alright then… let's see who's behind curtain number one tonight.'
Ryder followed the Widow down the dimly lit hallway, boots thudding lightly against the worn wood. She opened a door without knocking and gestured him in.
The room was modest—clean and businesslike. A few folders were neatly stacked on the desk, beside a steaming mug of coffee. But what drew all the attention was the man standing by the window.
Bald. A single eyepatch. Long black leather coat.
The aura of command rolled off him like cold steel.
'Well, shit,' Ryder mused privately, fighting the urge to sigh. 'Out of all the cameos I could've pulled today…'
Keeping his expression lazy, Ryder let his mouth curl into that half-bored smirk.
"So… nice place you've got here. Guessing you're not the landlord. Who exactly are you supposed to be—Cyclops?"
The man turned to face him fully, the lone eye locking on him with a weight that felt like a physical force.
"Director Fury," he said, his tone flat as stone. Not amused. Not irritated. Just utterly impassive, like speaking to a walking threat was as natural as breathing. "S.H.I.E.L.D. I assume even you can piece that together."
Ryder tilted his head with exaggerated innocence.
"S.H.I.E.L.D.? Can't say it rings a bell. Is that, like, a line of luxury umbrellas? Monogrammed, maybe?"
The Widow at the door almost twitched—almost. But Fury didn't even blink. His stare remained locked, unflinching, as if waiting for a joke to finish rotting in the air before moving on.
"You've made a mess of certain… facilities recently," Fury continued coolly. "I make it my business to keep track of people who think they can rewrite international power structures on a whim. Or who've decided Earth is their personal playground."
Ryder spread his hands in a careless shrug, that sly grin not quite reaching his eyes.
"Hey, I'm just doing my part for the community. You'd be amazed how many lowlifes suddenly reconsider crime when they see a smile like mine."
Fury simply stared at him. No humor. No exasperation. No cracks in the marble exterior.
"Enough. You're going to answer my questions. You're going to do it clearly. And if there's any more word games, I have contingencies that don't care how smug you are."
He clicked his tongue, then gave a small, amused tilt of his head.
"Alright then. Ask away, Director. Let's see if your questions are half as sharp as your poker face."
Fury didn't waste a heartbeat.
"Who are you really?" he asked, voice like a blade sliding across stone. "And don't insult either of us by tossing out some half-cooked alias."
Ryder folded his arms loosely, quirking an eyebrow.
"Well, that's blunt. Most people at least buy me a coffee first."
Fury didn't so much as twitch.
"What exactly are you doing stalking rooftops at night, tearing through low-level syndicates like it's open season? And why, despite all the technology and intelligence assets on this planet, does your face not exist in any database I can access—governmental, civilian, off-world, or otherwise?"
Ryder met that single, unblinking eye calmly, then let out a soft chuckle.
"Well, when you put it like that, makes me sound almost interesting."
He dropped the smirk for a moment, letting just a sliver of seriousness peek through.
"Call me… Sukuna. And yeah, I've been cleaning up scum after dark. Little therapy project, you could say. The kind the courts don't exactly sign off on."
Fury's stare was steady, not a single flicker of curiosity breaking through that stoic front.
"And your appearance? My analysts have scraped every possible record—law enforcement, SHIELD files, Civilian archives. No match. Not even a glitch to chase."
Ryder's—no, Sukuna's—smile turned sharper, almost teasing.
"Well, that's the fun of it. You ever think… maybe I just always wear masks?"
Fury's single eye narrowed the slightest fraction.
"Is that a joke? Or a confession you've got more than one identity to hide?"
Sukuna just tilted his head lazily, that grin widening.
"Why not both?"
Fury tried to press again.
"You're telling me there isn't even one slip? No birth record, no residency, nothing—"
But Sukuna simply stood there, hands in his pockets, grin never wavering. Like a stone wall built out of easy amusement.
"Director, with all due respect… maybe your world's just not big enough to hold a file on me."
It wasn't arrogance. It was a statement of cold fact—wrapped in a playful tone that somehow made it even more unnerving.