The Palm Community, East Village.
In Manhattan's East Village.
This was prime land—scarce and expensive.
Before the Battle of New York, a luxury home like this one—6,000 square feet of usable space, floor-to-ceiling custom windows, high-end materials, and a full Stark smart home system—would've been listed at twenty million dollars.
So…
Twelve million?
A bargain.
When Hawk said "Charge it," the female agent nearly had an out-of-body experience.
Gwen, who had still been lost in visions of snowy nights by the fireplace, snapped out of it. She stared wide-eyed at Hawk as the agent accepted his card.
Hawk's expression was calm.
Just as he had said before—
Since awakening the Microcosmos, money no longer mattered to him. If he wanted it, money was just a number.
Where there's power (fist), there's money.
That was the truth.
And with the fat commission ahead, the agent eagerly thumped her chest, promising the transfer would be done within three hours.
She sped off in her Porsche toward the housing bureau.
Hawk and Gwen turned back into the house.
Then—
Hawk found himself cornered.
Pressed against the wall, he blinked at Gwen, who had planted both palms on the wall and was staring into his eyes.
"What is it?"
"Hawk!"
"Mm?"
Her pretty face was serious. "What exactly did you do at Quantico?"
Hawk chuckled. "I thought you'd never ask."
It had been half a month since Quantico. Hawk had wondered if Gwen would ask what had happened.
But she hadn't.
And Hawk wasn't the gossiping type, so if she didn't ask, he didn't say.
He thought maybe she never would.
But now…
Gwen dropped her hands, shrugged. "I wasn't going to. But clearly, I can't avoid it anymore."
She'd known before Quantico that Hawk had a million dollars.
That, she understood.
She'd swallowed the two hundred thousand he donated at the church earlier.
But twelve million?
Unthinkable.
Her father George could work a hundred years on the NYPD and still not earn that much.
The answer was obvious.
Hawk hadn't had this money before Quantico. He came back from there with it.
So it had to have come from what happened at Quantico.
What happened there?
She actually didn't know.
When Hawk had gone, Natasha hadn't told her anything beyond "we found him." Even then, Gwen had kept the call short, only urging him to come home.
Later, Natasha gave her an address. When Gwen reached the airfield, Natasha was gone.
So Gwen waited for the news to reveal what had happened.
But the news never came.
Washington's reports were all sunshine and song.
Nothing about Quantico.
She'd assumed it was just a skirmish.
But now Hawk casually whipped out twelve million?
No skirmish could explain that.
Her eyes locked on him.
"What did you do that day? Why would they give you so much money?"
"Uh…"
Hawk opened his mouth.
But Gwen arched a brow, cutting him off. She stepped back, frowning.
"You robbed the base's vault?"
"Of course not."
Hawk shook his head firmly. "If I had, it would've been cash. You think they'd deposit it straight into my bank account?"
…I only blew up their vault.
That's all.
Gwen nodded slowly.
"Then you—"
"War reparations."
"What?"
"They started a war. To make me stop, they had to give me a step down. That money was reparations."
"…Hiss!"
Gwen sucked in a sharp breath, staring at him in shock. Only four words echoed in her head.
War reparations.
"How much did they pay you?"
"Thirty-three million."
"What!"
Her voice cracked.
"That much?"
"Is it?"
Hawk grinned. "One million each. Thirty-three people. Thirty-three million. Honestly, I think I asked too little."
He should've stuck with a trillion.
He sighed, then shrugged it off.
What would he do with that much? Even after today's spending—fourteen million—he still had sixteen million left.
Enough for him. No—for him and Gwen.
That was plenty.
More than money, Hawk preferred fists.
As long as his fists were strong, money would follow.
He smiled at Gwen's stunned face. "I should thank Ross."
Gwen blinked, suspicious.
"Why?"
"If not for him, I wouldn't have had the chance to demand reparations."
One matter didn't excuse the other.
He was glad Ross had given him the opportunity—but angry at what he'd done.
So Ross died, and Hawk even desecrated the family cemetery.
No need to tell Gwen that.
She was too kindhearted.
Instead, Hawk squeezed her hand, changing the subject.
"Come on."
"Where?"
"We didn't look carefully before. Let's go see our house properly."
"…I like the master bedroom's closet."
"Need any changes?"
"No."
She shook her head, glancing at him sidelong.
She knew he was dodging the topic.
She knew him. She knew the Federation military.
To wring reparations from them, Quantico must have been catastrophic.
That was why it was so tightly covered up.
But…
Hawk was safe. That was enough.
As she followed him up the stairs, her left hand in his tightened unconsciously.
Hawk felt it, glanced at her.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
She smiled brightly—so bright the room itself seemed to glow.
But—
Where some smiled, others wept.
Betty Ross was weeping.
Ten days had passed since her father's burial, yet in her D.C. townhouse she still cried endlessly.
She'd just been celebrating rekindling with her ex, Bruce Banner.
Then came the news.
Her father was dead.
Beheaded.
Worse, she still hadn't been told how he'd truly died.
"Military accident," they said.
Nonsense.
She knew he'd been killed—brutally.
She wasn't stupid. She was a scientist. The moment she saw the body, she knew.
Someone had crushed his skull underfoot.
The question was—
Who?
Since the funeral, she'd pressed her father's friends again and again.
But they all clammed up, repeating: "military accident."
Just as she was about to break, one contact sighed over the phone, promising to visit after work.
In the living room—
Betty stared at a photo of her father on her phone, silently swearing.
She would make his killer pay.
No matter who it was.
A father's death—irreconcilable hatred.
Just then—
The doorbell rang.
She wiped her swollen, red eyes and hurried to the door.
And there—
"Oh, Betty."
Nick Fury stood at the threshold. Seeing her haggard face, his tone carried a trace of grief. "You need to stay strong. That's what Ross would have wanted."
Closing the door, Betty faced him. "I will, Mr. Fury—after you tell me who killed my father."
Fury sighed.
"Quantico has been sealed under the highest clearance."
"I know."
She ushered him to the sofa, poured him lemon water, then sat beside him, teeth clenched. "No one at the Pentagon will tell me. But Mr. Fury, I deserve the truth. He was my father."
Fury gave a bitter smile, glancing around the empty room. "Bruce isn't here?"
"He went shopping."
Betty frowned, thinking he was dodging, and pressed on.
"Mr. Fury—who was the killer?"
"The killer was…"
Fury paused, looking at her strained, tearful face. A flicker of conflict crossed his features.
Betty didn't hesitate. With a thud, she dropped to her knees before him.
"Mr. Fury, please. You're the only one willing to tell me who it was."
"Get up."
Fury rose at once, trying to lift her.
But she stayed rooted.
Her voice broke.
"Mr. Fury, I beg you—tell me who killed my father."
"You…"
Fury's dark face shifted.
At last—
A long sigh.
"Ah…"
"…"
(End of Chapter)
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