Her fingertip hovered over the virtual keyboard for a moment, then she typed the reply:
[Arrangements confirmed, Mr. Hawk. 12:00 AM, Tears of the Muse top-floor terrace.]
[As for your question…]
[Satisfied? Hawk, you underestimate yourself.]
[Your 'focus' was pervasive, a suffocating control, so precise there was no escaping it.]
[The sense of power is undeniable, but what was more impressive was that damn seasoned patience.]
[The rhythm was firmly in your hands. Every probe was anticipated and dismantled, only to become a deeper layer of suppression.]
[The worst part is, Hawk, at that moment, your eyes were still clear as ice picks, as if you were merely assessing the stress limits of a precision instrument.]
[Frankly… extraordinary.]
Send.
This wasn't the cold "physical assessment report" for Fury. It carried a lazy, almost after-the-fact, authentic tone; every word was tinged with sensual meaning.
Hawk's reply followed immediately, filled with the pleasure of watching a prey struggle in his palm:
[Received your 'first-hand user experience report.' Such honest and vivid feedback is highly appreciated.]
[It seems the desired effect was achieved, both on a data level and an experiential one.]
[On a side note, if Ms. Natasha Romanoff ever wishes to relive this extreme training session… my private gym is always open.]
This was no longer just flirting; it was a brazen, almost provocative invitation of complete control.
Natasha's fingertips curled slightly, then quickly stabilized. She forwarded the entire chat history with Hawk, including the meeting confirmation, to Fury without expression. This was part of intelligence gathering: showing Fury Hawk's attempt to dismantle her defenses and her own response to the offensive. She added no personal comments, simply transmitting objective information.
A few seconds later, Fury's reply popped up, ice-cold:
[Received. Arrive on time.]
[Agent Romanoff, stay focused on the mission.]
He offered no comment on Hawk's suggestive remarks, but the last four words carried a heavy weight.
Natasha closed all communication interfaces and retreated into the shadows of her tactical suit. She methodically checked her gear, preparing for the night's meeting. Her movements were precise and efficient, as always.
But in her precision-instrument mind, Hawk's low voice still echoed: "...always open." This wasn't a sweet nothing; it was another test of her psychological boundaries. Her own response had been like adding fuel to the fire.
In tonight's meeting, Fury would confront Hawk directly, and her position as the bridge—or the utilized "tool"—would be even more delicate. Hawk Lane absolutely couldn't be dismissed as just a twenty-year-old boy. He was like an unfathomable cold pond; beneath the calm surface lay ruthless calculation, enough to devour everything, and… an irresistible, dangerous charm.
....
The moment the hands of the clock converged at midnight, the brightly lit terrace of the "Tears of the Muse" rooftop seemed like an isolated island floating above the Manhattan skyline.
The night wind carried the slightly salty moisture of the Hudson River, swirling the aroma of expensive coffee and cigar ash, but failing to dispel the invisible gunpowder lingering in the air.
The dazzling city lights sprawled out in the distance, outlining the sharply trimmed potted plants at the terrace edge, and illuminating the three figures around a solitary glass table in the center.
Nick Fury, in his trademark black leather trench coat, was like a chunk of night-condensed bedrock. His single eye, sharp as a hawk's, scrutinized the young man across from him. Natasha Romanoff stood like a perfect shadow, silently positioned half a step behind Fury, her tactical suit blending into the dim corner.
Hawk himself was the only discordant note in the tense atmosphere. He leaned comfortably in a sleek, modern armchair, his dark suit shimmering like silk under the carefully designed lighting. He casually fiddled with an unlit cigar. An almost untouched espresso sat before him, its wisps of steam rapidly dissipating in the cool night air.
"Director," Hawk's voice was low and pleasant, breaking the silence with a lazy tone, as if greeting a late friend. "Midnight Manhattan scenery, paired with your unique demeanor, always has a certain flavor." His gaze swept past Fury's tense face, finally resting on Natasha. A slight curve played on his lips. "Ms. Romanoff, the night suits you well."
Natasha's eyelashes didn't budge. She summoned all her willpower to compress and archive those physiological memories, firmly locking them in a read-only section of her mind.
"Mr. Lane, the 'King'?" Fury's voice was deep and filled with pressure. "Busan was blown up, Bates Capital was crushed like an ant beneath your thumb. You detonated a financial nuclear bomb under my nose, turning half of Wall Street upside down. Now, tell me, whose piece are you in this game? Or are you the one playing the chessmaster?" His lone eye locked onto Hawk, trying to pierce the elegant, composed facade.
Hawk chuckled softly. "Director, if I didn't know who you were, I'd think you were the Chairman of the Federal Reserve or the SEC… managing the financial markets? That's quite the overreach. And 'game' isn't the most accurate term. I prefer to call it 'risk elimination.' Bates Capital's danger level was already threatening social stability. I merely accelerated its metabolism." His tone was flat, as if discussing the weather.
"Don't give me the runaround," Fury's voice hardened. "And those two girls, Goo Ja-yoon and Shin Si-ah, they're weapons. Dangerous weapons. You're playing with fire. Biological weapons, carnage on Wall Street… you've become the epicenter of every kind of trouble."
The smile on Hawk's face deepened, yet his eyes held no warmth. "Director, your intelligence network is as efficient as ever. As for the epicenter of trouble…" He elegantly stood up, walking toward the terrace edge.
He looked up toward the roof of the opposite Bates Building, vaguely seeing a few well-dressed but distraught figures on the helipad of the Bates Building. They were core members of the Bates family and a few executives, hurrying toward a waiting helicopter, escorted by S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, carrying a few briefcases, clearly preparing to flee the scene of their defeat.
"Sometimes, trouble needs to be completely cleared out to let the waters calm."
Fury followed Hawk's gaze upwards, his pupils suddenly constricting. He realized what he was seeing, and a chill instantly crawled up his spine.
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