For the next several days, Alex's life settled into a rhythm that felt almost ordinary—at least on the surface.
He woke up early, the faint glow of dawn filtering through the blinds of his modest apartment. His mornings were quiet—coffee brewed in the same dented metal pot he'd had for years, a quick shower, and then a short walk through the bustling streets of Hell's Kitchen to his clinic.
At the clinic, the hours passed in a steady blur of patients. Stubborn locals who refused to set foot in a hospital unless they were half-dead. Immigrants who trusted him more than the system. Kids who came in with scrapes and bruises they claimed came from "accidents," but whose eyes told a different story. Alex never asked too many questions—just treated them and made sure they left better than they came in.
He also oversaw the last phase of construction at his small private hospital—a project he'd poured money, time, and far too much frustration into. Contractors came and went, clipboards in hand, muttering about permits, wiring, and supply delays. Alex was there almost every evening, walking the halls, making sure every detail matched his vision. By the time he got home at night, the city's neon glow had already taken over the streets.
The days blurred together—work, hospital checks, the occasional late-night drink at the corner bar. SHIELD didn't contact him, and Alex didn't reach out to them. It was almost easy to pretend that whole meeting with Fury had just been an elaborate dream.
But a month later, that illusion shattered.
It was a Friday evening, and Alex was locking up the clinic when his phone buzzed—not his personal phone, but the sleek, encrypted SHIELD-issued device Fury had tossed him "just in case." He'd shoved it in a drawer the day he got it, but now it lit up with a message.
Incoming mission briefing. Priority level: Controlled Op. Report to coordinates attached.
Alex stared at the screen for a few seconds, the city noise fading into the background.
"Well," he muttered, slipping the phone into his pocket. "Guess playtime's over."
Alex arrived at the coordinates just as the sun was dipping below the skyline, casting the city in deep orange and purple hues.
The location was a private underground garage, slick and quiet, the kind of place that screamed "classified" even without the armed guards flanking the entrance. A black sports car idled near the far wall, its engine humming low.
Leaning casually against the driver's side door was Natasha Romanoff—Black Widow—in her signature black tactical suit, the glossy material hugging every line of her figure. Her fiery hair was tied back in a sharp ponytail, and she held a small duffel bag in one hand.
She glanced up as Alex approached, her lips curling into the faintest smirk. "Took you long enough."
Alex arched a brow. "Wasn't aware this was a speed test."
Ignoring the jab, Natasha tossed him the duffel bag. "Suit up. We're going to a party."
He caught it, unzipping it to find a perfectly tailored black tuxedo inside, complete with cufflinks and polished shoes. "This isn't exactly my style," he said dryly, holding the jacket up.
"You'll survive," Natasha replied, already circling around the car toward the passenger side. "Target's holding a private gala at the Marlowe Estate. Very high society. No one gets in without looking the part."
Alex slid the jacket on, the fabric smooth and custom-fitted. "And what exactly are we doing at this little soirée?"
Natasha's eyes flicked to him, her tone calm but edged with steel. "There's a man there—Victor Draavos. Works with a mutant trafficker named Halvorsen. They've been kidnapping mutants, stripping them of anything useful, and selling them to the highest bidder. SHIELD wants Draavos eliminated before the network grows."
"Assassination mission?" Alex asked, voice level.
She didn't answer immediately—just stepped closer, adjusting the tie at his collar like they were old friends instead of near-strangers. "We make it look like an accident. Or a message. Either way, he doesn't leave that party alive."
Alex's crimson eyes met hers, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Sounds like my kind of evening."
"Good," she said, sliding into the passenger seat. "Because you're my plus-one."
"Huh?" Alex glanced at her, brow raised. "You planning to crash the party wearing that tactical suit?"
Natasha smirked faintly and tossed him another small bag. "Your suit's in there. Mine's in the other bag."
"So… let's change into them," she added, nodding toward a side door in the garage.
Alex stepped into the changing room first. "What are you doing?" she called after him.
"Changing," he replied evenly. "Not like I have anything to hide."
When he stepped out a moment later, Natasha's gaze swept over him. The tuxedo fit perfectly, framing his lean, muscular build like it had been cut by a tailor who worshipped Greek statues.
Her lips quirked, but she didn't comment—just disappeared into the changing room herself.
A few minutes later, she emerged wearing a black evening gown that clung to her figure like liquid shadow. The dress was backless, with a daring slit running up her left leg, and the subtle glint of concealed weaponry hinted at the danger underneath the glamour.
Alex gave a low whistle, smirking as his crimson eyes swept over her. "You clean up nice."
Natasha returned the look, just as bold. "Try to keep up," she said, brushing past him toward the car.
The black sedan purred down the city streets, the faint rumble of the engine barely audible over the soft hum of the tires on pavement.
They pulled up to the front of the luxury hotel, its towering glass façade glowing under a wash of golden light. Limousines and sleek sports cars lined the valet lane, spilling out men in tailored suits and women in glittering dresses.
Natasha slipped out first, the slit of her gown revealing just enough to catch a few eyes—and distract them from the quiet deadliness in her posture. Alex joined her a second later, adjusting his cufflinks like he'd been walking into high-society galas all his life.
Inside, the ballroom was a glittering ocean of crystal chandeliers, soft jazz, and murmured conversation. Waiters in white gloves weaved through the crowd with silver trays of champagne. A live quartet played in the corner, their music smooth but tinged with tension.
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