"The only League resource we're still tracking is the bullet-time ability," Fury continued, tapping the file. "Cross's bloodline trait. Investigation confirmed it's hereditary—can't be replicated or taught. We observed for a while, then deprioritized it."
He closed the folder with finality. "Most of what the Fraternity has is operationally useless to us. But we maintain our embedded asset to monitor for changes and assess potential infiltration opportunities."
Coulson nodded. "Our operative didn't focus on Smith Doyle during his developmental years. We had no indication he'd become leader, so there's no psychological profile or deep analysis available."
He consulted his tablet. "Basic intelligence on record: Smith Doyle, male, eighteen years old, orphan. Adopted and raised by the Fraternity's senior leadership, lived at their headquarters his entire life. Codename: GOD."
"So far, his actions align with the Fraternity's traditional principles—targeting genuine threats to social stability rather than political figures or corporate interests. He won't lead the organization in a destabilizing direction, at least not in the short term."
Coulson looked up. "And according to our asset, dismantling the High Table was his first declared objective after assuming leadership."
Fury's mouth quirked into something almost resembling a smile. "GOD. Quite the codename for an eighteen-year-old."
"The senior leadership clearly has exceptional confidence in him," Coulson agreed.
"I want close monitoring on Smith Doyle moving forward," Fury ordered. "I need to understand why he became leader so young. Is it special abilities? Unique training? Bloodline factors? Something else entirely?"
"Understood, sir."
"As for the conflict between the Fraternity and the High Table—our asset maintains normal intelligence-gathering protocols. No interference, no involvement. Let them fight it out."
Coulson nodded. "I'll brief our operative accordingly."
Unless either organization showed signs of possessing suspected 084-level items or technology, Nick Fury wouldn't dedicate significant resources to them.
SHIELD had bigger concerns—like the escalating incidents involving enhanced individuals and the Tesseract research Howard Stark had left behind.
But he'd keep one eye on this Smith Doyle.
Just in case.
Fraternity - Medical Wing
Smith carefully removed the hardened wax from Fox's face, peeling away the layer covering her eyes and mouth. The wax bath treatment had worked overnight, accelerating her body's natural healing to repair the internal injuries from yesterday's collision.
Fox's eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the light. She looked up at Smith and her voice came out rough and dry. "I'm thirsty."
"Puar," Smith called out.
The blue cat-like creature floated over carrying a bottle of water, which he'd somehow manipulated despite having no opposable thumbs. He poured a careful measure into Fox's mouth.
Fox's eyes went wide. She swallowed, then stared at Puar in disbelief. "What... what is that? A talking flying blue cat?"
Smith considered how to explain. "This is Puar. My companion."
He gestured to Fox. "Puar, this is my friend Fox."
Puar bobbed in the air, his tail swishing happily. "Hello! Nice to meet you, Fox!"
Fox continued staring, her brain clearly struggling to process what she was seeing. "Smith, what—how—?"
"He's related to the Dragon Balls," Smith said simply.
Fox nodded slowly, still looking dazed. Another mystery added to the growing list of impossible things surrounding Smith Doyle.
She shook off the confusion and focused. "What happened after I blacked out? Are we going after Viggo?"
Smith's expression shifted to something satisfied. "Viggo's dead. The entire Russian mob has been eliminated."
Fox sat up quickly—too quickly. The remaining wax coating on her torso cracked and fell away in chunks. "You killed him already? How long was I unconscious?"
"Oh, and I'm officially the leader now," Smith added casually.
"What?" Fox grabbed his arm, eyes shining with excitement. "Smith! Congratulations! That's—wait." She looked confused. "How long was I out? The treatment usually takes at least a week for internal injuries this severe."
"You slept for a night," Smith said, amused by her reaction. "I handled the Russian mob last night, completed my assessment, and the leadership transfer was formalized this morning."
Fox stared at him. "You... one night?"
Smith proceeded to explain the previous evening's events—the assault on the mob headquarters, the body count, the helicopter escape attempt, meeting John Wick in the aftermath. Fox listened with growing amazement, occasionally interrupting with questions or expressions of disbelief.
By the end, she was shaking her head in wonder. "Eighteen years of preparation, and you finish your final assessment in three hours. The elders must be thrilled."
"They seemed pleased," Smith agreed with a small smile.
John Wick's House
John sat in his living room, Helen's video playing on the television for the hundredth time. Her smile, her laugh, the way she looked at the camera with so much love—it was all he had left of her now.
In his hand, he held a small orange sphere with one star. The Dragon Ball—the one-star ball that Helen had given him as a gift, though she'd never known what it truly was.
"Wait for me, Helen," John whispered to the screen. "I'll bring you back. I promise."
The doorbell rang.
John's head snapped up, hope flaring in his chest. Smith Doyle—it had to be. They'd agreed to meet in two days, but maybe Smith had information about the other Dragon Balls already.
John quickly placed the ball in his safe and went to answer the door.
His expression fell when he saw who was actually standing there.
Santino D'Antonio stood on his doorstep wearing an expensive suit and an apologetic smile. The Italian was handsome in a carefully maintained way, his dark hair styled perfectly, his shoes probably worth more than most people's cars.
"Hello, Jonathan," Santino said warmly.
John's jaw tightened, but he stepped aside. "Santino."
They moved to the living room. John went to the kitchen and began preparing coffee—the ritual of hospitality that their world demanded, even when you didn't want your guest there.
Santino looked around the room, his gaze lingering on the photos of John and Helen. "I was sorry to hear about your wife, John. Truly. She seemed like a wonderful woman."
"She was," John said shortly, returning with two cups.
They sat across from each other, coffee on the table between them. The silence stretched awkwardly.
Santino finally spoke. "Listen, John. I want you to know—I didn't want to come here. I really didn't."
John's hands tightened around his cup. He knew why Santino was here. There was only one reason the Italian would travel from Rome to New York to visit him personally.
The blood oath.
"Please don't," John said quietly. "Don't ask."
Santino reached into his jacket and withdrew a marker—identical to the one John had given to Smith. This one was older, though. The metal was tarnished, the blood thumbprint on its surface faded but still clearly visible.
John's thumbprint from years ago.
Santino placed it on the coffee table between them like laying down a trump card.
"I'm sorry, John. But no one gets to walk away from this life and come back without consequences."
He leaned forward, his expression genuinely regretful but also inflexible.
"I didn't want this either. I'm in a difficult position. But you have to remember—if I hadn't helped you that night, you never would have completed your impossible task. You never would have retired. You never would have had those five wonderful years with Helen."
Santino gestured at the house around them. "All of this—your retirement, your happiness, your time with her—it all exists because I helped you. In a very real sense, everything you had with Helen, I gave you."
His eyes hardened slightly. "Which means you owe me."
John's voice was ice. "I'm retired."
"The blood oath says otherwise."
"The marker isn't a joke, Jonathan. When someone gives a marker, they're swearing on their soul. You gave me this. You made a promise written in blood, and blood doesn't wash away."
John stared at the marker on his table. He'd just given one to Smith Doyle—given it freely, willingly, as payment for a debt he genuinely owed. But this one? This one he'd given years ago, in desperation, when he'd needed help getting out.
If he refused Santino now, right after giving Smith a marker, the entire underworld would hear about it. His word would mean nothing. His honor—the only currency that mattered in their world—would be worthless.
But he was retired. He'd avenged Helen's memory. He'd dealt with Viggo. He was done.
Except he wasn't done. Not really. Because the Dragon Balls existed, and they could bring Helen back, and John would walk through hell itself for even the slimmest chance of seeing her alive again.
"Is it urgent?" John asked, trying to find any wiggle room in the situation.
"Very urgent," Santino confirmed.
"Does it have to be me?"
"It has to be you." Santino's tone left no room for negotiation.
John's mind raced through possibilities, excuses, anything that would let him refuse without destroying his reputation. His face must have shown his internal struggle because Santino sighed and pulled out his phone.
He pulled up a photo and turned the phone toward John.
The image showed a small orange ball with four star.
John's heart stopped. His expression remained carefully neutral through years of practice, but inside, his entire world had just shifted.
"I heard you were looking for these things," Santino said casually, studying John's face. "Do you know what this is?"