Alex swiveled the chair slightly, letting it creak as he tested the motion. From this position, he could see the entire room—door, bed, shelves, safe, and TV—like a commander's seat on a miniature bridge.
The hum of distant machinery from the facility was faint here, almost muffled by the insulated walls. It gave the space a strange sense of calm, like he'd stepped into a different world entirely.
On the bookshelf, one title caught his attention—"Strategic Warfare and Covert Operations, 1972 Edition"—its spine cracked and worn. Another, sitting beside it, was a thick folder labeled "CLASSIFIED—PROJECT PEGASUS." He made a mental note to dig into that later.
The safe by the bed was the real temptation. He could almost feel the weight of whatever secrets it held. SHIELD didn't give someone a private safe unless they intended that person to hold something worth guarding—or something dangerous enough to be locked away.
He leaned forward and tapped the desk console. The TV on the wall flickered to life, instantly displaying a split-screen of live feeds—news channels, satellite imaging, encrypted SHIELD comms. In the corner, a smaller display tracked his biometric vitals in real-time, a reminder that SHIELD never stopped watching. Partly to make sure he is not suddenly dead and partly to see if he is in his room or somewhere else.
Alex smirked faintly. "You guys really don't believe in privacy, huh?"
There was no answer, of course—if someone was listening, they wouldn't admit it.
He stood and walked toward the bed, running a hand over the fabric. High-quality, tightly woven—military precision, but comfortable enough for long stays. Above it, a discreet vent hissed softly, circulating perfectly cooled air.
This wasn't just a place to sleep—it was a base of operations, a surveillance hub, and a bunker all rolled into one. SHIELD was making it clear: if he was going to be part of this, he was already expected to think, plan, and act like a piece of the larger machine.
Alex sat back down, resting his elbows on the desk, eyes lingering on the holographic display still faintly glowing from the earlier briefing.
Alright, Fury, he thought. You wanted me in the game. Let's see how much I can change the rules before you even realize it.
"Well, I guess I'll do that later. Since right now I don't have much to do, I'll just head back to my clinic," Alex muttered as he gave the bed one last glance and then turned toward the Quinjet station.
The other agents had already prepared his ride, and one of them asked, "Sir, where would you like to go?"
"Back in New York—Hell's Kitchen area," he said, his tone casual as he stepped onto the Quinjet and took a seat.
The aircraft lifted off smoothly, carrying Alex away from the base.
Meanwhile, Fury watched the departure from behind a glass panel in the command room.
"Was it a good idea to show him all of this?" Hill asked, her voice even but tinged with caution.
"I don't know about that," Fury admitted. "But we need him on our side."
Hill simply nodded in agreement.
The Quinjet sliced through the clouds, its engines humming steadily as the skyline of New York gradually came into view. From the window, Alex caught sight of the sprawling city—its familiar chaos still somehow comforting after the cold steel order of the SHIELD base.
They descended smoothly, the pilot maneuvering toward a discreet rooftop landing pad not far from his clinic. The Quinjet's rear ramp lowered, and Alex stepped out into the cool breeze, his coat fluttering slightly in the wind.
"See you around, doc," one of the agents called from inside before the ramp closed and the craft lifted away, disappearing into the sky.
Alex didn't waste time. He made his way down the side stairwell of the building, blending quickly into the everyday crowd below. It felt strange—only hours ago, he'd been walking through a secret facility that held the power to change the course of the world. Now, he was just another face in the city.
Back in the SHIELD base, Hill remained beside Fury, still watching the airspace display where the Quinjet's blip was fading from view.
"Even if we need him, he's unpredictable," Hill said quietly. "You trust him?"
Fury's expression didn't change. "Trust? No. But I trust what he wants—and right now, what he wants lines up with our goals. That's enough for me."
Hill glanced at him but didn't press further. "I'll keep an eye on him."
"Do that," Fury replied, his gaze fixed on the screen as if he could still see Alex's movements beyond it.
Alex arrived at his clinic just as the sun began to dip below the skyline, casting long shadows across Hell's Kitchen. The sign above the door still flickered occasionally—something he'd been meaning to fix for months—but otherwise, the place looked exactly as he'd left it.
Stepping inside, he was greeted by the familiar scent of antiseptic and the faint hum of the old refrigerator in the back room. His receptionist, Maria, looked up from behind the counter, clearly surprised to see him.
"Back already? Thought you were taking the day off."
Alex gave a faint smirk. "Change of plans. Thought I'd check in before the place burned down without me."
Maria rolled her eyes. "We managed to survive a whole day without your sarcasm, believe it or not."
He moved past her toward his office, pulling off his coat and hanging it on the hook by the door. For the first time since he'd left SHIELD's underground complex, he felt the tension in his shoulders ease.
The desk in front of him was piled with patient files, notes, and a few unopened letters. He sat down, leaning back in the chair as the events of the day replayed in his mind—the towering Helicarrier frames, Fury's pitch, the cold, clinical feel of the operations room that was now technically his.
He wasn't naive. SHIELD didn't recruit people without a reason. They wanted something from him, something beyond just his abilities as a doctor. The trick would be figuring out what that was before they tried to cash in.
Outside, the city carried on as always—horns blaring, voices shouting, the distant thrum of music from a nearby bar.
He reached for one of the unopened letters on his desk, then stopped. Instead, he leaned back further, staring at the ceiling.
"This is going to get messy," he muttered to himself.
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