Under the cover of night, Bronx and the decadent Manhattan seemed like two different Worlds.
The taxi stopped at an abandoned pier.
The air was thick with the stench of dead fish and diesel, and the pier's wooden planks groaned with a grating "creak" as they bobbed in the murky Water.
A gaunt old man sat on a dilapidated fishing boat, puffing on a pungent cigarette.
His name was Maurice.
He was a boatman William had found through a certain channel.
It was said that for enough money, he could take you to the gates of hell and even say hello to Cerberus, the gatekeeper, for you.
William walked onto the swaying gangplank, his leather shoes slipping on the wet planks, which made him uncomfortable.
"To North Brother Island."
William got straight to the point, without any pleasantries.
Maurice exhaled a cloud of thick smoke, his cloudy eyes scrutinizing William up and down, like he was evaluating a fat lamb about to be sent to the slaughterhouse.
"It'll cost more."
He held up three bony fingers.
"At this hour, to that godforsaken place, it's triple the price."
"Alright."
William pulled a wad of cash from his pocket and tossed it onto the bow of the boat.
"But you have to wait for me by the shore; when I come out, I need to see your boat."
Maurice's eyes lit up at the sight of the money, but were quickly covered by a layer of gloom again.
He slowly started the engine; the fishing boat roared like a tractor and left the pier.
"Young man, that island isn't clean."
Maurice's back was to him, his voice blurred by the engine noise.
"It used to be a quarantine hospital where many people died. Later, that pharmaceutical factory was even more sinister. Some say the experiments they conducted even raised the dead from their graves…"
"I only trust risk assessment reports."
William leaned against the gunwale, watching the black silhouette in the distance become clearer and clearer in the night.
"I don't believe in ghost stories."
Maurice said nothing more.
He just sped up the boat.
The fishing boat didn't dock at the official pier, but stopped at a collapsed embankment.
"I'll go this far."
Maurice pointed to the dark forest on the shore.
"Before dawn, if you can still walk out, light a Fire here, and I'll see it."
William ignored his ominous words and nimbly jumped ashore.
It was terrifyingly quiet here.
Only the sound of the wind passing through the abandoned buildings, like a sob, could be heard.
William turned on his powerful flashlight.
Vines, like giant pythons, wrapped around the crumbling walls.
The window glass was already shattered.
Dark and hollow, like a pair of prying eyes.
A huge building stood not far away, and the words "Pendragon" could still be faintly seen on the wall.
This was his destination.
The main gate here was nowhere to be found.
William, stepping inside, scanned the abandoned factory hall.
The air, a mixture of mold, rust, and some chemical residue, was even more pungent than old boatman Maurice's cheap cigarettes.
"The wall structure is basically intact, it just needs moisture-proofing. The load-bearing columns seem fine, but it's best to reinforce them. This ventilation system… needs to be completely replaced, directly converted into a military-grade biochemical filtration system."
William walked along, muttering like a picky foreman.
Horror movie atmosphere?
Non-existent.
For a professional risk manager, there are no ghosts here, only asset depreciation that needs to be assessed and repaired.
This place was a perfect, tailor-made lair for Curtis Connors.
Secluded enough, hidden enough.
No matter how big a commotion he made, at most it would only scare the fish in the East River.
Even if Dr. Connors had a Lizard-like episode in the middle of the night and wanted to do a set of calisthenics in the factory, no neighbor would call to complain about him disturbing the peace.
"Perfect."
William was very satisfied with his choice of location this time.
Just as he was envisioning the beautiful blueprint of transforming this place into the "Rodriguez Risk Management Company - High-Risk Asset Custody Center Bronx Branch" in the future, a familiar ringtone broke the dead silence.
Phil Coulson's name was prominently displayed on the screen.
William's face immediately fell.
He swiped to answer and put the phone to his ear.
His tone carried a listless, business-like enthusiasm: "Oh, Agent Coulson, what a rare guest! In the middle of the night, you old man aren't sleeping; what earth-shattering case do you need me for now?"
Coulson's gentle and calm voice came from the other end of the line, as if with a premonition of "I knew you'd say that":
"Mr. Rodriguez, your professionalism is admirable. However, your current location… seems a bit beyond the scope of an insurance consultant's business."
"Oh, you mean that."
William's tone instantly switched to "innocent good citizen" mode.
"I'm just experiencing life, you know. New York's night scenery is very unique; I'm here to take some photos to record the city's changes."
"Is that so? Then your taste is truly unique."
Not a ripple could be heard in Coulson's voice.
But William always felt he was smiling, even through the phone.
"As far as we know, North Brother Island has been designated a permanent restricted area since 1963, prohibiting anyone from landing. Your current actions are, strictly speaking, illegal trespassing."
"Do you need me to contact the New York City Police Department for you? I'm quite familiar with their Director."
William fell silent.
Of course, he knew this.
"Alright, alright, Coulson."
William chose to get straight to the point.
"Tell me, what's the purpose of your call?"
Coulson was satisfied with his pragmatism.
"We can help you acquire this island. Property rights, municipal approvals, utility hookups… all the tedious processes, we can handle them."
"Sounds like a sure-fire deal."
William kicked a dilapidated iron bucket at his feet, making a loud "clank."
"So, what's the price? It can't be just for me to buy your Director a cup of coffee, can it? That guy's coffee taste isn't cheap."
"We do have a small 'personnel issue' that requires your unique professional capabilities."
Coulson said.
"Personnel issue?"
William chuckled.
"Does S.H.I.E.L.D. also need performance reviews and layoffs? I'm familiar with that business. Which Agent was slacking off at work and got caught by you? Or is the political infighting in your break room too intense, and you need me to organize a team-building event, a 'icebreaker'?"
"Mr. Rodriguez, you are very humorous."
Coulson's words paused.
"We have a… 'special asset' that has been emotionally unstable recently, refusing any form of communication with us. We've tried psychological counseling, coercive measures, but the results have been unsatisfactory."
"So, you thought of me?"
William understood immediately.
"You want me to… sell him insurance?"
"We prefer to call it 'conducting a high-value target risk intervention and asset revitalization'."
Coulson responded with a perfectly crafted PR statement.
"We believe your communication style and business model might offer a fresh perspective to address the predicament we face."
William sneered inwardly.
Speaking so grandly, isn't it just asking me to be the cannon fodder who steps on the landmine?
Someone S.H.I.E.L.D. can't handle is either a super-powered individual with strange abilities or a stubborn troublemaker with a temper so foul it could kill a bull.
The risk factor of this deal is a bit high.
"My appearance fee is very expensive."
William began to haggle.
"Moreover, I don't guarantee success. And I don't sell my insurance to just anyone; if the client's qualifications are too poor, I will refuse coverage. I don't want my company to be branded as a 'bad asset disposal center' just as it's starting out."
"Besides full ownership and usage rights of this island, S.H.I.E.L.D. can also offer you a consultant position."
Coulson threw out an even bigger bait.
"As for success or failure… we trust your professional capabilities. We just need you to talk to him."
An officially recognized identity.
A private, undisturbed island.
These stakes were too tempting.
With this identity, he could stand a bit taller when dealing with people of Tony's caliber in the future.
With this island, he could not only house Dr. Lizard but also turn it into his true lair.
"Deal."
William agreed crisply.
"Send me the information on that 'special asset'. Also, I need to emphasize my working principles."
"Please proceed," Coulson said.
"First, this island, from today onwards, belongs to Rodriguez. I don't want to find your listening devices or secret Agents in the Underground Room in the middle of the night. I'm a light sleeper and easily disturbed."
"Second, you have no right to interfere with my working methods. Don't send any observers to follow me around; that will affect my performance. I don't want to be watched like a monkey."
"Third, this is a one-time cooperation. If there are similar needs in the future, we will need to sign a new contract, and the price will be negotiated separately. I am not free labor."
There was a long silence on the other end of the phone.
Just as William thought the signal had cut off, Coulson's voice rang out again.
"The information will be sent to your email shortly."
William hung up the phone and once again surveyed the dilapidated factory building.
Now, the feeling here was completely different.
This was no longer just a ruin, but his private territory, the cornerstone of his future business empire.
William walked to a wall, raised his foot, and kicked a loose brick with force, sending dust flying.
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