The man smiled like a man who'd rehearsed innocence. "Sir? I don't know what you mean. Are you looking for someone?"
The man kept smiling, but his knuckles blanched around the fork.
"If it's not you, then I'm looking for the wrong person. And you saw my face, so I won't ask. I'll just kill you. Now I'll say it for the last time. Who hired you to come here?" He smiled which gaved James a dilemma. Did he have to kill the wrong person?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
James did not use his powers this time. He didn't need them. Threats were simpler, less bloody—and in their own way, far more terrifying.
The man across from him refused to break. He just stared back, jaw locked, the kind of defiance born from fear rather than courage.
"Are you sure you want to fight to the death?" James asked, his tone somewhere between a warning and a jest. "Or do you really not know what this operation was for? You failed a simple mission. How are you planning to explain that when you crawl back to your handler?"
He smiled faintly, as if he were teasing an old friend rather than interrogating an enemy.
A waiter approached, polite and nervous. "Sir, would you like to order something?"
James didn't even turn his head. "No. Just having a short conversation. Thank you."
The waiter gave them both a wary glance before retreating.
"Come with me," James said evenly, rising from his chair. "If you do anything stupid, I'll shoot you—whether you're the right target or not."
He grabbed a napkin to wipe his hands, pushed the man out of the restaurant, and guided him toward the waiting car. In one swift motion, he shoved him into the passenger seat, delivered a short strike to the temple, and watched him slump unconscious. Then James slipped into the driver's seat and pulled away from the curb.
The car was quiet except for the faint hum of the engine. James's eyes flickered faintly blue for a second as he reached into the man's mind. Cortana assisted, streaming memories into organized fragments across his eyes.
[Memory scan complete. Subject possesses low-level clearance. Peripheral Hydra asset. Orders: local bribery, minor disruption operations. No deep intel connection.]
James exhaled. "So they sent a pawn. Figures."
When he returned to the S.H.I.E.L.D. surveillance post, the atmosphere was taut. Only a handful of agents remained—most had gone to coordinate the local blockade with the Brazilian authorities. Paperwork, phone calls, radio chatter. It was the sound of bureaucracy trying to contain chaos.
"Sir," a team leader called, stepping up briskly, "the local government is protesting our presence. They're threatening to deploy the army if we don't extract Dr. Banner out soon."
James let out a low laugh, shaking his head. "The army? If the army would work, we wouldn't be here. Remind them that the United States already tried that—didn't go so well."
He nodded toward the unconscious man. "Interrogate him. He's a pawn, but I want every info you can get. I'll deal with Banner myself."
"Sir, what exactly are you planning to do?"
"Talk," James said simply. "That's all we can do. If this continues, no one's walking away happy."
He left before anyone could argue.
The drive through the city was quiet, the streets half-asleep under the early morning fog. James didn't head straight for Banner—he took the long route, circling through the coastal roads, giving himself time to think. Fury's order was clear: observe, not engage. But the longer he'd studied Banner's file, the more obvious it became—if they treated the man like a bomb, he'd eventually explode.
Finally, the road opened to the coastline. Waves rolled in rhythm against the sand, the air thick with salt. James parked on the edge of the dunes and stepped out.
Through his binoculars, he spotted Banner's figure lying near the shoreline—bare-chested, dirt-streaked, half-covered in tattered pants. The man looked less like a scientist and more like a ghost trying to remember who he used to be.
James didn't approach right away. He moved quietly, setting up a small folding table and two chairs. A portable stove hissed as he boiled water in a kettle, the faint sound blending into the surf. Everything was arranged neatly—two cups, a teapot, a few small boxes. Then he sat and waited.
The sun slowly climbed out of the sea, red light stretching across the water. The waves swished over the sand, washing up shells and tranquility. Banner stirred, groaning faintly as he opened his eyes. For a moment, he just stared at the horizon, confused, maybe wondering what city—or century—he'd woken up in.
When he finally turned around, he froze.
A stranger sat a few meters away at a small table, steam curling from a pot of water.
James stood up, walked back to the car, and retrieved a clean set of clothes—a shirt, pants, and a pair of shoes. He placed them neatly on the chair opposite him, gesturing politely for Banner to take them, then returned to his seat.
"Who are you?" Banner asked, voice hoarse. "You've been waiting for me to wake up?"
"Change first," James said, the faintest grin tugging at his mouth. "If you were a beautiful woman, we could have this talk as is—but you're not."
The water in the pot started to boil. James poured it carefully into the teapot.
He didn't know much about making tea—but Cortana did. He'd spent some nights practicing her instructions until the motions looked natural. The tea set itself was fine porcelain, high-end and expensive, imported at ridiculous cost. Evelyn Salt had arranged the delivery personally. She'd probably had to twist a few CIA logistics arms to make it happen.
Banner, curious now, slipped into the clothes, finding the fit exact to his measurements. "Fits perfectly," he muttered. "Guess you've been watching me for a while."
James didn't answer. He poured the tea into two cups and slid one across the table. The scent drifted upward—Warm and citrusy with the fragrance of bergamot.
James raised his own cup, sipping slowly. The taste relaxed him—a rare moment of peace in a life of endless actions. For a heartbeat, it was enough to remind him what normal felt like.
"Don't you want to drink?" he said, glancing at Banner. "Even poison wouldn't hurt you. Might as well enjoy it."
Banner hesitated, then took a sip. His brows lifted slightly. "It's… sweet like candy. Earl Grey, right? It's good."
He drank again, a little more confidently this time.
James smiled faintly, refilling his own cup. "Made it myself, black Ceylon leaves with a drop of Bergamot oil."
He reached into a small box and pulled out two cigars and a cutter. "I've never tried a real Cuban before. Figured today's a good time. You want one?"
Banner eyed the cigar, then took it. "Why not."
James lit his cigar, drawing in the familiar burn. The smoke curled upward in the sea breeze. He hadn't smoked since before joining S.H.I.E.L.D.—but something about the situation, the quiet, felt fitting.
"This is the first one I've had since… well, another life," he murmured. "I've quit for a long time, but this mission feels like a relapse waiting to happen."
Banner chuckled softly as he cut the cigar's tip and lit it. "Can't say I blame you."
They sat there for a while, two men on a lonely beach—one hunted by the world, the other sent to hunt him—sharing silence, smoke, and tea.
Finally, James extended his hand. "Name's James Gibson. You may or may not know me."
Banner shook it cautiously. "I've heard the name… not much beyond the headlines. You run that company, right?"
"League Games," James confirmed with a small nod. "Built it last year. We've gone global since. Market value's over a hundred billion now—still climbing."
Banner frowned, half-amused. "A game company? Why would someone like that come looking for me?"
James smirked. "Because I have another job title. A Level Six Agent of the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division." He said the full name slowly, letting it land. "League Games is a hobby. The agency work—that's the part that never sleeps."
Banner leaned back, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. "Strange mix. A businessman and a government ghost."
James shrugged, flicking ash from his cigar. "Life's strange. But it works."
The sea breeze carried their smoke away, dissolving into the morning light.