A week had passed since Markus's return to the mansion near New York, and Wakanda had long since fallen into silence. Onyx, as efficient and merciless as ever, had completed her assignment with surgical precision. Now, she was back where she most often belonged, beside him, draped across his sheets like a blade at rest.
The morning light spilled lazily through the high arched windows, casting golden streaks across the marble floor. Onyx stirred beneath the silk sheets, her movements slow, feline. She slid from the bed, her bare frame a sculpted silhouette in the slanted light. She glanced over her shoulder with a small, knowing smirk. An unspoken invitation, as she padded toward the shower, hips swaying like a metronome of sin.
Markus watched the rhythmic grace with an amused murmur. "Decadence before duty," he mused aloud, rising with effortless poise.
A few minutes later, steam curled from the partially open door of the ensuite. Moans echoed within, intimate, but not soft. Theirs was not tenderness. It was a dance between two predators who understood that devotion came with fangs. And Onyx was satisfied in her role in this imbalanced relation.
Afterward, Markus settled into his office, the light now cooler, the day stretching forward. He wore a dark three piece suit, immaculate as always, his cuffs fastened with subtle platinum. A fresh cup of coffee steamed at his side, untouched.
The door opened without knock, as only Onyx was permitted to do. She entered, the remnants of heat still on her skin, her usual expression returned, composed, businesslike.
"An operative from SHIELD has requested an audience," she said. "Natasha Romanoff."
Markus didn't lift his eyes from the page he was reading. He simply turned it slowly and asked, his voice smooth as aged wine, "The Black Widow?"
Onyx gave a nod. "No infiltration attempt. No disguise. A direct message, politely worded. She wishes to speak… in person."
Now that did prompt him to look up.
A slow smile spread across his face.
"Well," he said, reclining slightly, fingertips steepling beneath his chin. "How very refreshing. I was beginning to wonder if Fury would ever learn the difference between espionage and etiquette."
Ritz Carlton, Manhattan.
The worst part about delivering messages to beings like Tenebris was not the danger. It was the waiting. The world, for men like him, was far too small, and for Natasha Romanoff, the messenger in question, the last five days had been an exquisite lesson in patience.
She had been holed up at the Ritz Carlton in Manhattan, her suite perched high above the city, the skyline offering little distraction as time ticked forward without so much as a whisper. She had sent the request personally, through the proper channel, if such a thing even existed when dealing with Eden Industries and since then, silence.
It wasn't like Tenebris would be predictable. For all she knew, the response could've arrived in Tokyo, São Paulo, or been carved into the wall of the Kremlin. That's how men like him operated, untraceable, impersonal, and maddeningly aloof.
She stirred her coffee absently as the breakfast tray cooled before her. "He could at least say no," she muttered under her breath.
As if summoned by her irritation, the phone rang.
She picked up without checking the caller. "Romanoff."
"Miss Romanoff," came the crisp, unmistakable voice of Onyx, every syllable shaped like a blade drawn halfway from its sheath. "Mr. Tenebris has agreed to a meeting. Tomorrow. Noon. At his residence outside New York City. Your transportation will arrive one hour prior. Please be ready."
Click.
No confirmation. No pleasantries. Just gone.
Natasha lowered the phone slowly and exhaled through her nose.
"Nice to hear from you too, bitch" she said to no one, before grabbing her tablet to notify Fury.
He didn't bother with subtlety. "Keep it clean, Romanoff. We're not going in for leverage. Just leave a good impression."
"Since when do I not?" she replied with a dry smile.
The next morning, the knock came precisely at 10:40. The reception desk called up moments later.
"Miss Romanoff? Your escort from Eden Industries is here."
She was already dressed.
Today's choice was intentional, a calculated blend of allure and steel. A body hugging black sheath dress, slit high at the thigh, paired with thigh high heeled boots. A leather jacket draped loosely around her shoulders completed the ensemble, adding an edge of danger to the otherwise elegant silhouette. Subtle, provocative, professional. Just enough to be noticed without being dismissed.
When she stepped into the lobby, she didn't need to ask who was there for her.
Six men waited by the front entrance, standing so still they could've been statues. Each one was dressed in the signature black suits of the Guardian Angels. Tailored, expressionless, absolute. Their earpieces were invisible. Their weapons, if present, were better hidden. But their presence alone told the story: Tenebris sent gods to chaperone mortals.
She said nothing, only offered a short nod.
The lead agent returned the gesture and gestured toward the convoy waiting at the curb three sleek black vehicles, unmistakably Eden Industries. Not branded, but known. They were somewhere between hypercar and armored personnel carrier, with smooth, obsidian bodywork that caught no light and tires that barely whispered against the pavement.
Natasha slid into the center vehicle.
The doors closed with a quiet finality.
And the convoy began to move, gliding through Manhattan's arteries like a vein of shadow, heading toward the one place in America where even SHIELD held its breath before stepping forward.
The moment Natasha stepped through the main entrance of Markus Tenebris's estate, she had to remind herself to keep walking.
The exterior loomed with unapologetic grandeur. True Gothic, not the diluted kind favored by architects trying to impress billionaires. Spiked arches, towering spires, iron traceries carved with runic detail. Windows like cathedral eyes gazed down from high walls, and the black stone facade shimmered faintly with a sheen of polish. This was not just a home.
This was a declaration.
The interior echoed the same intent. Dark vaulted ceilings supported by sculpted pillars, and a stillness that made even her softest footsteps feel intrusive. Torches burned with ethereal light. Tapestries whispered of battles she'd never heard of.
And always, always the quiet hum of something deeper, something watching.
She said nothing, but her lips pressed into a line.
This was no penthouse or bunker. It was a sanctum.
The Guardian Angels led her through the manor until they reached the central meeting hall. Twelve foot double doors carved with high relief murals stood like the gateway to a sovereign court. With a silent nod, the lead Angel pushed them open.
Natasha stepped inside.
The hall was just as she remembered it from Coulson and Hill's limited limited report. Vast, solemn, and cold. The black stone floor stretched beneath vaulted ceilings crisscrossed with ribbed arches. The long table that dominated the room was carved of dark ironwood, runes worked subtly into its edges, surface bare save for a few crystal decanters and silver trays placed with minimalist precision.
At the far end of the hall, seated as if he had never left it, was Markus.
He did not rise immediately, though his eyes found her the moment she entered. He watched with the composed interest of a man who had already read the first chapter of the book and was simply curious to see how she would perform in person.
On his right sat Onyx, in the same black suit she wore when handling coups and diplomatic dismantlings. Her expression was unreadable, her gaze cool and measuring.
Markus rose at last, not urgently, nor theatrically, simply with the calm authority of someone who had never rushed for anything in his life.
He offered a shallow nod, perfectly measured, his voice smooth and clear as polished steel.
"Miss Romanoff," he said. "Please, do come in."
Natasha returned the nod with quiet professionalism. Her expression softened into its diplomatic mask, the one she wore when assassinations were off the table and negotiations were on.
"Thank you," she said evenly, "for agreeing to this meeting."
She didn't smile. But she did allow sincerity into her tone. It was the least she could offer a man who had, for all intents and purposes, rewritten the geopolitical map.
Markus gestured subtly to a seat, second on his left.
"A pleasure," he replied. "Please, make yourself at home. Though I suspect… you'll find little comfort in familiarity here."
His smile was faint. Civil. Dangerous.
Natasha sat without hesitation.
And thus began the meeting SHIELD had waited years to arrange, between the most dangerous man alive… and the last woman they could afford to lose.
Natasha sat upright, legs crossed at the ankle, posture poised but relaxed. At least in appearance. It was her job to make first contact, to break the ice, to bridge divides before they widened into chasms. This, however, was no ordinary negotiation.
She drew in a slow breath, eyes fixed politely on Markus.
"First," she began with a calm that barely masked the weight behind her words, "I'd like to apologize, for what happened during Agent Hill's assignment in our first official contact. That was... not handled well."
A pause. Brief. Tactical.
Markus's lips curved into a smooth, approving smile. "You'll be pleased to know I was satisfied with how that affair concluded. It provided... a certain clarity I found useful." His gaze lingered just long enough to be pointed. "And I do hope SHIELD has recovered from the consequences of its choices."
The smile deepened just a shade. Not gloating. But amused. Sharply so.
Natasha nodded slowly, brushing past the veiled sting. "Everything is in order now," she replied, her tone professional. "Director Fury sends his regards. And a formal request, delivered in good faith."
Markus inclined his head slightly, resting one hand over the other on the armrest. "How gracious of him."
There was silence for a beat, then the barest arch of his brow.
"And what is it," he asked with perfect courtesy, "that Mr. Fury wants from me, exactly? I assure you, all of Eden's products are already available through public channels. I can't imagine anything more… requiring a face to face meeting."
Natasha studied him for a long moment. Then, something flickered in her expression, permission. Or perhaps fatigue with the pageantry.
"Would you mind," she asked, voice lower now, "if we dropped the formalities?"
Markus gestured with a soft motion of his fingers. "Please," he said, "by all means… do continue."
She wasn't aware of it, how the room had subtly quieted around her thoughts. How her certainty had narrowed, how her intentions were suddenly easier to grasp, even for herself. She believed she was choosing clarity.
In truth, he was simply nudging her toward it.
Natasha leaned forward, hands folding loosely on the table. "Fury believes you're an enhanced individual. But your classification is… undetectable. Even a dedicated sensors we planted multiple times confirmed nothing. No gene, no trace, not even dormant signs. Still…" her voice faltered, not with hesitation but the awareness of how strange it all sounded aloud. "Still, he's convinced. And he wants you identified."
She continued, almost on instinct now. "We need your technology. Your weapons. And most of all… Fury wants you to be part of the Avengers Initiative."
Markus's smile didn't move, but something behind it tightened. A thread of indulgence wrapped in quiet delight.
"And yes," she added after a long breath, "SHIELD is certain you were responsible for the classified leak."
The words left her mouth and her eyes widened.
Not because of what she said. But because she hadn't meant to say it.
Her hand moved slightly, as if to cover her mouth, but froze mid motion.
Her breath hitched. Her body didn't tense but her eyes told the story. She realized it then.
He had been controlling the conversation. Guiding her. Not overtly, nor with threats or theatrics.
But with subtle, surgical precision.
He was inside her thought process.
Markus leaned forward slightly, lacing his fingers together, his turquoise eyes glinting with almost boyish pleasure.
"Isn't this a better way to communicate, Miss Romanoff?" he said, voice low, amused. "Efficient. Candid. And far less exhausting."
The predatory curve of his smile was not cruel, just precise.
In her mind, the echo of Fury's voice stirred, and Markus tilted his head as if listening to it alongside her.
"'Think of it,'" he quoted gently, "'as if you're going to God's door.'"
His smile widened by a fraction.
"Your Director does have a flair for poetic metaphors."
Natasha could barely respond. Her body remained still. But her mind raced. Cataloguing just how much control he had taken. And how easily.
Markus let the silence stretch before speaking again, his tone still wrapped in courtly charm.
"Now then," he said, drawing her attention back to him with nothing but a glance, "tell me, Miss Romanoff… why should I meet with Mr. Fury?"
His voice remained soft. Patient.
"But do take your time. After all, from where I sit... everything you've listed so far sounds like a rather spectacular headache."
Natasha Romanoff sat still, the silence in the room pressing against her skin like velvet iron. Her pulse had slowed, not from calm, but disbelief. She wasn't sure when the realization had dawned, perhaps mid sentence, or just as she finished speaking. But now it was undeniable.
He had been guiding her thoughts.
Her mind, her reasoning, her chosen truths... all had been subtly redirected toward honesty. Toward confession. She hadn't even noticed. And that, more than anything else, unsettled her.
Markus, seated across from her, appeared entirely unbothered. The same faint smile lingered on his lips, elegant and unreadable.
"Isn't this better, Miss Romanoff?" he asked softly, lacing his fingers before him. "No masks. No little spiders creeping through cracks. Just words. Pure and clean."
She said nothing.
Markus's smile widened by a degree. "Now then, tell me plainly, why should I meet your Mr. Fury? Everything you've said so far sounds remarkably like a headache dressed in military formality."
The silence was deep. Natasha blinked once, then twice and the world shifted.
She still sat in the grand hall. She still remembered speaking to Markus. But the nature of the conversation had... softened. The sharp edges dulled, the admissions replaced by diplomatic notes. Her recollection now painted the meeting as respectful, distant, and unremarkable, save for one detail.
She had been asked to call Director Fury.
She reached for her phone, fingers moving automatically.
Markus, lounging in his chair now, gave Onyx a sidelong glance. She nodded, already syncing the conversation to private channels. Across New York, in a secure sub basement of a SHIELD satellite office, Nick Fury answered on the first ring.
"Romanoff," he said curtly.
"Sir," she replied, voice steady. "The meeting was concluded. Mr. Tenebris has agreed to a face to face. But he won't come to SHIELD headquarters."
Fury was quiet for a beat.
"You told him I'm a busy man?"
"I did. He said, and I quote 'If the Director is truly that busy, we can always postpone until he finds time.'"
Fury's eye narrowed. He could hear the condescension through the phone.
"Fine," he grunted. "We'll play it his way. Ask if he'll accept myself, Hill, and Coulson."
There was no hesitation. Natasha looked up.
Markus already knew. Yet allowed her to ask. "Acceptable," he said aloud. "Though do tell him to leave any monitoring equipment in your HQ."
Natasha relayed the message word for word.
Fury's jaw clenched. "Time?"
Markus tilted his head slightly. "Tomorrow. Noon."
"Understood," came the answer, clipped and dry. "Romanoff, return to base."
The line went dead.
Natasha lowered the phone.
"I trust," Markus said, rising smoothly to his feet, "that you'll see yourself out. You'll recall the meeting as cordial, civil, and surprisingly pleasant. I gave you no reason to suspect anything unusual. You were treated with... care."
And with a casual wave of his hand, her memory adjusted again. An editing so flawless it felt like recalling a real event. No mention of control, no subtle invasion of her will. Only polite exchange, an invitation delivered, and a return accepted.
Natasha bowed respectfully.
"Thank you for your time, Mr. Tenebris."
He smiled, still aristocratic, still untouched.
"The pleasure, is mine."
She left.
Onyx appeared behind him a moment later, silent as shadow.
"She never knew," she said.
"She never needed to," Markus replied, gazing out the window toward the distant skyline. "And Fury... will come. Because men like him always do. They cannot help themselves."
Nick Fury set the phone down without a word. The quiet hum of SHIELD's comms room filled the silence, but it didn't reach him.
Tenebris had agreed.
That was something. But what it actually meant was another matter.
He leaned back in his chair, the familiar weight of tension curling at the base of his spine. "Finally," he muttered, fingers steepled under his chin. "He decides to speak."
It wasn't a victory. Not really. But it was a crack in the mountain.
He stood and tapped the console.
"Coulson. Hill. Situation room. Now."
Within minutes, the two entered.
Hill's posture was firm, as always. Coulson's more casual, but eyes sharp. They were professionals. Trusted.
"Tenebris has agreed to meet," Fury began without preamble. "Tomorrow. His estate outside New York."
"Invitation or summons?" Coulson asked with quiet humor.
"Let's call it... tolerance on both end," Fury replied. "He doesn't do headquarters. We're going to him."
Hill raised a brow. "He's forcing us to come to him?"
Fury gave her a look. "An whose fault is this.." he asked
Hill said nothing.
He turned fully toward her. "Listen carefully. This isn't a mission. This is diplomacy with a nuclear storm wrapped in a suit. You will be respectful, you will be calm, and you will remember that Eden Industries has more global influence than half the Security Council combined."
Hill exhaled slowly. "Understood."
Fury nodded. "We're not here to provoke. We're here to listen. To observe. If possible... to recruit him."
Coulson cracked a half smile. "That's usually my goal anyway."
Fury's mouth didn't move, but there was something vaguely resembling amusement in his eye.
The Following Day, 11:40 AM
The Eden Industries convoy appeared. Three silent vehicles, sleek and obsidian black, rolled up to SHIELD's designated rendezvous point outside the city with military precision. Their presence was not just punctual. It was predictive.
Six Guardian Angels emerged, each one a sculpted statue in black, faces covered with smooth armor, their movements synchronized and inhumanly precise.
"Director Fury," the lead said, voice modulated and low. "We are your escort."
Fury didn't answer. He simply stepped into the vehicle without pause, Hill and Coulson following close behind. There was no briefing during the ride. No light conversation. Only silence, occasionally interrupted by the ambient hum of the vehicles. if they could even be called that.
They arrived at the mansion in less than fifteen minutes.
And it was nothing short of gothic majesty.
Black spires pierced the skyline like spears into heaven. It was like stepping into a cathedral built by a god with a taste for dread. Coulson murmured, "Takes 'old money' to a whole new level."
Even Hill had nothing to say.
The Guardian Angels led them inside without a word. Warm light filtered through crystal glass chandeliers and high arched windows.
The hall was vast.
Not merely in size but in presence as well.
The silence in Markus's meeting hall wasn't heavy, it was absolute.
The great chamber, once host to Wakandan royalty and other supplicants, now stood wrapped in soft shadows and filtered light through tall Gothic windows. The black marble floor reflected the warm gold of enchanted torches. At the center, Markus sat relaxed in a high backed chair of dark wood and silver inlay. A steaming cup of spiced tea rested before him. Onyx stood just behind him, quiet as a statue.
Six Guardian Angels had escorted the guests inside. Fury, Coulson, and Hill, wordlessly guiding them to the far end of the obsidian table.
"Director Fury," Markus said smoothly, standing to greet them. "Welcome. I see punctuality is still valued at SHIELD." Fury gave a short nod as he took his seat. "We try to keep time, Mr. Tenebris. Appreciate you receiving us."
"You're quite welcome," Markus replied. "Though I do find it curious… your insistence on face to face diplomacy. After everything."
Fury didn't flinch. "It's what the situation calls for."
Markus turned his gaze, cool and contemplative, to Hill. The silence stretched just long enough to become uncomfortable.
"Agent Hill," he said, voice velvet smooth, "welcome back. You've aged gracefully. Though I must admit… threats wear poorly on you."
Hill's jaw clenched.
Fury's gaze narrowed slightly. "Let's cut through the decorum. You orchestrated the SHIELD leak."
Markus didn't blink. "Of course."
"Why?"
The smile returned, patient, faintly amused, utterly without remorse.
"I dislike being threatened," Markus said, still staring at Hill. "Especially by those who pretend to safeguard what they barely understand."
He leaned forward just a touch, folding his hands neatly.
"And SHIELD, as it behaved back then, was beginning to remind me of its late cousin... Hydra."
Fury didn't speak immediately, he did not raised to the bait as well. His expression was hard, but controlled.
"I need to ask something plainly," he said. "What are you?"
Markus sipped his tea, eyes calm.
"You've already caged a golden haired brute in New Mexico," he said, as if discussing the weather. "One who might give you some insight into power that echoes beyond stars. Ask him what he sees when he looks at me. If his senses haven't dulled entirely."
"You're saying you're like him?"
"I'm saying," Markus replied gently, "that Odin, Allfather of Asgard, perhaps the strongest of his pantheon… holds but splinter of my depth."
The words were spoken so softly, yet they cracked through the air like thunder.
Fury processed it with a clenched jaw, but pressed on.
"We're building a team. The world's shifting. There are threats coming, things, people, we can't handle alone."
Markus gestured lazily to the side, toward the six silent figures stationed by the wall. His Guardian Angels, standing perfectly still, like monuments of war.
"These six alone," he said, "are tenfold more effective than anything in SHIELD's arsenal. Faster and stronger than your best operatives, and unlike your agents, incorruptible."
A long pause followed. Coulson's gaze lingered on the Angels. Even Hill looked uncertain.
Fury took a breath.
"And yet, we'd rather have you with us than... outside the fence."
Markus tilted his head. "The old illusion of control. Charming."
"Call it a safeguard," Fury offered.
"I call it unnecessary," Markus said. "I do not join teams. I create empires. Your 'initiative' is a well meaning insurance policy. I am an inevitability."
Fury exhaled, quietly, then asked one last thing.
"What is it that you want?"
Markus regarded him for a long moment. Then, he smiled again, but this one was quieter, more distant. A little sad, even.
"I am a tourist, Director Fury," he said. "Passing through. Sampling the culture. Observing the stars before they burn out. I will leave, eventually."
He stood. The room seemed to grow colder for a breath.
"But while I remain... understand that I am not your enemy. Unless you make me one."
Fury rose, his two agents following.
"I hope we won't," he said, voice flat.
"I hope you won't either," Markus echoed, tone polite.
"Anything else?" Fury asked.
Markus turned toward the tall windows, hands clasped behind his back.
"Yes," he said. "Remind your people that true power never announces itself. It simply arrives."
He turned his head slightly.
"And it does not ask permission."
The Guardian Angels opened the doors without a word.
Fury, Hill, and Coulson exited in silence.
The holding room at SHIELD's makeshift compound in New Mexico was plain. Too plain for the subject in question.
Thor Odinson, still shackled by human grade restraints, he could break on a whim if not for his father's punishment, sat in silence. His broad frame relaxed, golden hair pulled back loosely, but his blue eyes betrayed little patience.
Fury, Hill, and Coulson entered the room, the tension following them like a second shadow. Fury took the center seat across the table from Thor, arms resting on the edge, gaze direct.
"Thor," Fury began, calm but firm, "we'd like to ask you about your father."
Thor tilted his head, curious. "You wish to know of Allfather?"
"Yes," Coulson added smoothly. "Specifically, how powerful is he?"
Thor exhaled through his nose, glancing briefly at the ceiling, as if trying to translate something ineffable into mortal words.
"Odin Allfather is not merely powerful," Thor said at last, his tone reverent. "He is the breath between stars. The storm in silence. His will holds the Nine Realms in order, and his rage... can level them."
Hill raised an eyebrow. "So, what? World ending power?"
Thor nodded slowly. "When he chooses to wield it. But my father is more than force. He is wisdom, foresight, law. He is... balance."
Fury leaned forward just slightly. "And if you were to stand before someone else... someone not from Asgard. Could you tell if they were like you?"
Thor's eyes narrowed. "A god, you mean."
Fury didn't answer. He didn't have to.
"Yes," Thor said simply. "We feel one another. Perhaps not in strength or name, but in presence. Divinity marks the air. It weighs on the world around it. It's not something one can fake."
Coulson leaned in, thoughtful. "Even if they tried to hide it?"
Thor gave him a hard look. "You cannot hide thunder from the sky."
Fury sat back, the wheels in his head turning visibly.
"So if we introduced you to someone," he said carefully, "you'd be able to tell whether or not they're... like you?"
Thor smiled faintly, amused by the question. "I'd be able to tell if they were not. That is far easier."
Fury nodded once, then rose to his feet. "That's all we needed."
As he turned to leave, Hill gave Thor a sidelong glance. "And if this person were... stronger than Odin?"
Thor's smile disappeared.
He didn't laugh. He didn't scoff.
He looked straight at her.
"If such a being walks your world," he said slowly, "then your world as well as the the whole nine realms is already lost."
The silence after that was heavy. Even Thor felt it settle in.
Coulson opened the door. Fury paused before walking out.
"Get some rest," he said, glancing back. "We might need you soon."
Thor watched them leave, his expression unreadable.
In the hallway, Hill broke the quiet first. "You're thinking of bringing him in."
"No," Fury muttered. "We're bringing him near."
Coulson glanced sideways. "And then what?"
Fury's eye darkened, focused. "Then we watch what thunder does when it sees a black hole in a suit."