At the same time, in Washington, D.C., inside a large, arc-shaped building—
"Director, we've found the video footage from that case."
A young man in a black suit hurried into a spacious office, handing a USB drive to a bald man with dark skin.
"Good work, Agent Moore. You're dismissed."
The bald man turned his head—one eye sharp and observant, the other covered by an eyepatch. It was none other than the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D., the man known to some as the "One-Eyed Fury" or "Motherf—king Fury": Nick Fury himself.
He plugged the drive into a console built into his desk, and a holographic screen flickered to life.
The video showed Lucas, Daredevil, and the Punisher wiping out an entire gang. The camera lingered especially on the tornado-like vortex Lucas had created with his energy burst.
Fury narrowed his one visible eye. "Coulson, what did the field investigation find?"
Across from him sat a middle-aged man with a receding hairline—Agent Phil Coulson.
"The scene's been mostly processed, Director. The residual energy readings are… strange. It's some kind of spatial field—our instruments can't properly identify it."
Coulson flipped through a folder and handed it over.
Fury waved it off. "Forget the paperwork. Tell me if you've found the man."
He pointed at the figure in the video—Lucas, calmly walking through the center of the storm.
"Our people spoke with Daredevil and the Punisher," Coulson said. "They both claimed not to know him—though it's obvious they're hiding something."
Coulson tossed the folder into a nearby trash bin. Since Fury didn't want to read it, it was as good as destroyed.
"I was hoping to hear a 'but,' Coulson…" Fury said, leaning forward.
Coulson smiled faintly. "But… we managed to identify him. We combed through every nearby security camera and even checked satellite footage. We finally got a match."
He took out another file and handed it over.
This time, Fury accepted it and flipped it open.
The first page contained a detailed identity record—Lucas Norman. Every bit of his life, from birth to now, was laid out neatly. Even his biological mother—a drug addict—was listed with full details.
Fury studied the young face in the photo for a long while. Then he glanced at the last page, where the "threat level" assessment was printed.
"Coulson, just have him monitored. Don't make contact yet. He's still just a kid," Fury finally said, exhaling softly.
Though the risk level was marked high, it was followed by a note: "Low threat to public safety."
And really—raised by the NYPD's commissioner, growing up in a stable, loving household—there was little reason to see him as a danger.
That was why Fury didn't order an immediate capture—just surveillance.
"Oh? He owns a whole building on Manhattan Avenue?"
Fury raised an eyebrow. It was rare enough for a teenager to own property—much less an entire building in one of the most expensive parts of New York City.
Of course, S.H.I.E.L.D.'s investigation concluded it was "inherited," and there was nothing suspicious on record. After all, the system's cover stories were flawless.
Fury thought for a moment. "Where's Natasha right now?"
"She's in Fiji," Coulson said wearily. "Finished the job there and decided to take a little vacation."
He gave Fury a bitter look. Out of everyone in S.H.I.E.L.D., he was probably the only one who never got his full time off—every time he was about to relax, Fury called him back in.
"Ahem…" Fury coughed, a little guilty, then straightened. "Tell Agent Romanoff to come back. Give her a different vacation spot.
And put this Lucas Norman under Top Secret Classification."
Top Secret meant only Fury himself could access the file—no one else.
---
Meanwhile, completely unaware of all this, Lucas walked into the Devil May Cry office the next morning—only to have Skye come rushing up to him.
"Boss! Good news!! We finally got a commission!!"
"Kupo~!!"
She shouted excitedly, hugging the little Moogle plush in her arms. Even the Moogle seemed to cheer along.
Lucas's sleepy eyes lit up instantly.
"Where? Where's the client?!"
He spun around, looking for someone.
"Relax, boss," Skye laughed. "The client posted the request online. They said they'd come by around ten o'clock today to discuss details."
She glanced at the wall clock—still half an hour to go.
"Ohhh, perfect!"
Lucas plopped down into his chair, anticipation gleaming in his eyes.
Finally, an official commission. Time to get that system quest moving.
Sure enough, around ten o'clock, the bell over the door jingled—ding-ling-ling!
Lucas and Skye both turned toward the entrance.
To their surprise, the door opened… and in walked a little girl, maybe ten years old.
"Hey, sweetheart, are you lost?" Skye asked gently, waving her over.
The girl shook her head and stepped inside. "No, I'm the one who made the online appointment. My dad's missing. I want you to help me find him."
She spoke in a clear, sweet voice, sipping the glass of milk Skye handed her.
"What?! You're the client?" Lucas slumped back in his chair, staring at the ceiling with lifeless eyes.
He'd been so ready for his first real supernatural case—only for it to turn out to be… a "find my dad" mission.
"Sweetie," Skye said kindly, crouching beside the girl, "your dad probably just went to work. He'll be home tonight—you'll see him then, okay?"
But the girl shook her head firmly. "No. He's been gone for two days. He was taken away… by sand."
"Sand?"
Lucas's eyes snapped open. He immediately thought of the mysterious sandstorm that had clogged the streets a few nights ago.
Skye, however, didn't connect the dots. She just kept trying to comfort the child, assuming her father had abandoned her—just as Skye's own parents once had.
"Can you tell me exactly what happened when your dad was taken?" Lucas asked, kneeling beside the girl, his tone gentle.
The little one showed no fear. She took a sip of milk and nodded seriously, speaking like a tiny adult.
"It was like this—two days ago, I was about to go to school…"
---
"I'm going to school, Daddy! Don't touch the appliances while I'm gone, okay?"
The girl waved toward the house before running toward the bus stop.
"Okay, okay, got it~"
A man's voice replied cheerfully from inside. A moment later, a broad-shouldered man in a plaid shirt stepped into the hallway, watching her leave.
At the bus stop, the girl suddenly patted her pockets—then froze. She'd forgotten her house key.
She turned and sprinted back home, knocking on the door when she arrived—but no one answered.
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