In a Loft apartment in Harlem.
Tandy Bowen was patrolling her new territory like a vigilant cat.
She checked the door lock.
It was old-fashioned but sturdy.
She pushed the window and found traces of reinforcement on the inside of the frame.
Tyrone sat quietly on the cheap sofa, his hands in his hoodie pockets, motionless, like a sculpture merged with the Shadow.
He only occasionally looked up, glancing at the rusty fire escapes outside the window and the blurred city skyline in the distance.
Tandy's gaze finally fell on the computer.
She walked over and wiggled the mouse.
The screen lit up, displaying the lock screen.
She remembered what William Rodriguez had said when he left and typed a string of characters into the password field.
RiskManagement888.
The screen unlocked, revealing a clean desktop with only a browser icon and the recycle bin.
Tandy hesitated, then clicked on the browser and typed a name into the search bar.
"William Rodriguez."
The search results were unexpectedly few.
No Facebook, no Twitter, no trace of any social media.
Only a few scattered business news articles mentioned him as "Stark Industries' newly hired Senior Risk Consultant."
The accompanying image was a blurry profile.
"He hides himself so well."
Tandy muttered softly.
Unwilling to give up, she tried a few more keywords.
"Rodriguez Risk Management Company."
This time, only a company official website, registered just a few days ago, popped up.
The website was rudimentary, like a half-finished product, with nothing but the company name and a contact number.
"A fraud."
Tandy closed the browser, and the screen darkened, reflecting her face full of distrust.
She turned around and looked at Tyrone, who was still slumped on the sofa.
"There's nothing about him online; he's as clean as a White sheet of paper. What normal person has no social footprint? This guy is definitely problematic."
Tyrone did not respond.
The Shadow around him seemed to deepen slightly due to Tandy's anxious mood, and the darkness under his hoodie was even richer than before.
Tandy didn't notice this detail.
Like a Beast trapped in a cage, she began to pace back and forth in the small apartment.
"'Rodriguez Risk Management Company'… an empty website, a phone number, is that all? He dumped us here like two worthless pieces of luggage."
She stopped, hands on her hips, scrutinizing this simple "home."
"He said this was a warehouse, but I see holes everywhere. The door lock can be easily picked, and although the windows are reinforced, jumping over from the neighboring rooftop wouldn't be difficult."
She walked to the corner and kicked the radiator, which made a dull "bang" sound.
"He's watching us, he must be."
She muttered to herself, then began searching through everything like a professional investigator.
She checked the seams of the light fixtures.
Knocked on the walls.
She even lifted the sofa cushions.
The result was nothing.
No cameras, no listening devices.
This place was not only simple but also clean, frighteningly clean.
Tyrone finally moved.
He stood up from the sofa, walked silently to the window, and pushed open the window leading to the fire escape.
A cold draft, mixed with the smell of rust and river wind, poured in.
"Tandy."
His voice was low, almost swallowed by the wind.
"You can see the stars here."
Tandy's search paused.
She walked to Tyrone's side and followed his gaze to the night sky, somewhat murky with city light pollution.
Indeed.
A few stubbornly twinkling stars were visible.
In their past days of hiding, they had always seen a sky fragmented by tall buildings at the end of an alley.
Tandy's anger inexplicably dissipated a little.
Her gaze returned to the interior, falling on a forgotten cardboard box in the corner.
She walked over and opened the dusty lid of the box.
Inside were not surveillance devices, nor hidden weapons.
But stacks of old comic books wrapped in plastic film.
The edges of the pages were yellowed, emitting a scent unique to old paper.
Tandy casually pulled out one.
The cover showed a man in red underwear lifting a car.
This image was so incongruous with the man in the expensive suit, full of talk about "assets" and "liabilities," that it struck her as absurd.
She couldn't imagine the man named William Rodriguez reading something like this.
"Look at this."
She handed the comic to Tyrone.
Tyrone took it, his fingers tracing the figure on the cover.
For the first time, he spoke a complete sentence on his own initiative.
"He… may not be what we think he is."
… A PGP-encrypted email had just arrived on William Rodriguez's computer screen.
The sender was a code, no name.
He clicked on the email, which contained a multi-layered compressed data package.
After decompression, a folder lay quietly on the desktop, titled — [North Brother Island, Pendragon Pharmaceutical Factory, Top Secret Files].
William Rodriguez picked up his coffee and took a sip.
He opened the file.
The first thing that popped up on the screen was an aerial view.
A solitary island, surrounded by the murky East River, with abandoned buildings scattered across it.
Vines and weeds almost swallowed them, like a relic of modern civilization.
Next was the internal blueprint of the pharmaceutical factory.
Complex pipelines and ventilation systems, like the internal organs of a steel behemoth.
The underground section was specifically marked in red, with a complex structure, like a giant ant's nest.
At the end of the data, a note from Stark Industries' security department was attached.
Target asset property rights are clear, originally a Military outsourced biochemical project Base, later converted to civilian use.
Permanently abandoned thirty years ago due to an unknown "containment failure" incident. The island has been designated a restricted area by the municipality, prohibiting anyone from landing.
Risk Warning: There is a risk of unknown biological and chemical contamination in the area.
According to scattered urban legends, "strange things" often happen on the island at night.
It is recommended to entrust a professional team for cleaning and evaluation.
"Containment failure…"
William Rodriguez softly uttered the phrase, the smile on his lips growing wider.
Could there be a more perfect "Lizard's Home" than this?
A corner of the World forgotten, a cage inherently filled with ominous legends.
He closed the file and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window.
New York's brilliant lights were like a flowing river of stars.
His gaze passed through this prosperity, directed towards the forgotten, isolated island hidden in the darkness.
Dr. Curtis Connors.
I have found your new home.
Now, all that's needed is a "real estate agent" to personally inspect the property.
William Rodriguez picked up his coat and walked towards the door.
Tonight is not for sleeping.
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