The restaurant shimmered with restrained opulence. Warm lamplight glowed across crystal glassware and porcelain plates, casting soft gold reflections across the velvet-lined walls. A quiet violin quartet played near the window, their notes drifting gently through the air like perfumed smoke. Somewhere beneath it all lingered the earthy scent of truffle oil, the sweetness of caramelized onions, and the rich undertones of heavy cream reduced to perfection. It was the kind of place built to impress, where every table bore the weight of whispered conversations and diplomatic performance.
And at the center of it all sat Mark, eating like a man who's been hungry all his life
Nick Fury leaned back in his chair, attempting to project calm. He gave a small chuckle and waved a hand, trying to play the role of magnanimous host.
"Eat as much as you want, kid. Ten more servings if it helps. Knock yourself out."
He meant it as a flourish. A gesture to smooth things over. Something generous but harmless. The sort of thing you said to keep the peace, never meant to be taken literally.
But Mark looked up with bright eyes and an earnest grin.
"Really? Mr. Fury, you're the nicest guy I've ever met. Waiter! I'll take a hundred servings of the last two dishes. And don't skimp on the sauce. I'm just getting started!"
The waiter paused mid-step, one foot forward, uncertain if he had heard correctly. Fury's confident smile faltered. His laugh, this time, was thinner.
An hour later, that laughter had vanished entirely.
Fury now sat stiffly, arms folded, his expression a study in quiet exasperation. Mark was still eating his twenty-third plate, by some counts, and showed no signs of slowing. Not once had he reached for a drink. Not once had he leaned back to breathe or rest. He simply carved, chewed, and swallowed, all with the mechanical precision of a machine built for consumption.
Fury's left eyelid twitched.
'This kid eats too much. Way too much. Hell, I've seen pigs give up long before this.'
What was meant to be a casual diplomatic dinner,a symbolic gesture between SHIELD and the mutant factions had turned into a gluttonous siege on one of the city's most exclusive French restaurants. Fury could already see the finance reports, the line item bleeding red. With the money spent here tonight, he could have armed a black ops team with full tech loadouts, field drones, and cloaking gear.
He tried to convince himself it was worth it.
'Technically, I said "as much as you want." How was I supposed to know he had a black hole as his stomach?'
But that wasn't what stung the most.
What stung was that he had been played. Fooled by those big round eyes and that harmless grin. The kid looked like he should be chasing homework, not consuming entire kitchens. Mark hadn't just weaponized his appetite, he'd weaponized hospitality.
Beside him, Magneto and Mystique remained poised, sipping their wine with the cool detachment of predators watching prey unravel. Too composed. Too quiet. Fury glanced between them and narrowed his eye.
'They knew. Those smug bastards knew this would happen.'
They had seen this boy eat before. They could've warned him. Instead, they had just settled in, comfortably watching the chaos unfold like a movie. Fury could practically hear the smirk in their silence.
Before he could say something ill-advised, his communicator buzzed against his waist.
Grateful for the distraction, he tapped the receiver.
"Fury."
"Sir" came Maria Hill's calm voice.
"Colonel Stryker is dead."
Fury stopped breathing for a moment. His chair scraped loudly against the marble floor as he stood.
"WHAT?"
The table fell quiet. Conversations froze. Knives stopped mid-cut. All eyes turned to him.
Charles Xavier leaned forward, his expression troubled. Maria Rambeau tensed beside him, brows drawn. Magneto's eyes darkened with a flicker of something unreadable. Even Mystique paused her glass halfway to her lips.
Only Mark continued eating, slicing into a delicate cut of sole with slow, surgical precision. He hummed softly to himself, almost cheerful.
Fury's mind raced. Stryker had been under constant surveillance. Full scans. Biofilters. Psychic warding. There was no way anything could have gotten through. No obvious method. No clear motive. And yet, here he was, dead.
Fury didn't notice the brief glance exchanged across the table. Magneto. Mystique. A silent moment, almost imperceptible. A shared realization.
They knew.
They had seen Mark pocket something earlier that day. Small. Innocuous. A shimmer of cloth, a flicker of arcane magic. They had thought nothing of it at the time. Thought it was mischief. Thought the boy was bluffing.
Now they weren't so sure.
No one suspected him. No one could. The execution had been clean, discreet, and untraceable. Not even Hill had raised an eyebrow in that direction. All eyes were on SHIELD's own agents.
Fury muttered a quiet apology to the table and tapped his communicator again. He stepped away from the group, murmuring rapid questions, issuing terse commands. He tried to keep calm, but his mind was already racing through contingency protocols.
By the time he returned, his face was drawn tight.
"Emergency came up," he said.
"Coulson will handle the bill."
Xavier gestured mildly. "There's no need. We'll pay our share."
Fury shook his head, already walking. "SHIELD hosted this. SHIELD pays."
With that, he strode out, followed closely by Maria, Natasha, and Barton. The tension followed them like smoke.
What Hill had told him in private was worse than the public announcement.
Stryker had died during interrogation. His death was fast, symptoms consistent with a rapid-acting neurotoxin. But the real issue wasn't the death itself, it was how it happened, no poison had been detected in his system during intake. Nothing on the scans. No residues. No anomalies. And yet, less than twelve hours later, he was dead.
One of the guards, a fresh-faced graduate from the SHIELD Academy, had cracked during questioning. Not because he'd done it, but because he wasn't SHIELD at all. The kid had confessed to being a mole from an unknown organization. No allegiance. No clear goal. Just embedded infiltration.
It was a disaster.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Across the city, deep within the polished corridors of the Triskelion, former Director Alexander Pierce stood at his window, gaze fixed on the skyline. Behind him, Jasper Sitwell shifted uncomfortably.
"She found him, sir. Maria Hill traced the recruit."
Pierce's voice was quiet, roughened by disappointment.
"We needed that boy in place. Was it incompetence or bad luck?"
"Neither. He wasn't compromised, he just cracked. Said he joined for the money. Didn't even know what Hydra was."
Pierce exhaled slowly, the beginnings of a headache forming behind his eyes. Every year, Hydra siphoned off fresh SHIELD recruits. Most were expendable. Useful only for relaying intel or muddying the water.
Now one of them had become a liability.
"And Stryker?" Pierce asked.
"That wasn't us, was it?"
Sitwell hesitated.
"No, sir. We needed him alive. He was about to fold. We were this close to copying everything Fury squeezed out of him. Whoever killed him... it wasn't us."
Pierce turned from the window.
"Then who?"
There was no answer. Only silence.
He looked out again, hands clasped behind his back.
Something else is moving. Something we don't control.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Back at the restaurant, the last of the guests were filtering out, leaving only Mark at the table. He lifted his water glass and swirled it slowly before taking a sip. A faint smile touched his lips.
Not because he was full.
Because it had worked.
The spell had been simple. A weave of transfiguration masked beneath sleight of hand. Folded into fabric, hidden between breaths. Cast in a moment when no one had been looking. Designed to dissolve, to vanish, to leave nothing behind but results.
And now, SHIELD was reeling.
And hydra was flinching.
Mark finished the last bite of his meal and placed the fork neatly across his empty plate.
Then he leaned back, hands folded over his stomach, eyes closed.
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