The night in Louisiana was damp and stifling. The air was thick with the earthy stench of rain-soaked soil mixed with the fermented rot of unknown plants, clinging to the skin in a sticky, unpleasant film.
Levi and Carol descended slowly from several thousand meters in the air. The entire process was completely silent—no sound, not even a gust of wind. Their toes touched down lightly on a neatly trimmed lawn, like two leaves falling soundlessly in the night breeze.
Before them stood a typical Southern American wooden house. Two stories tall, with a wraparound porch. The white paint looked mottled and weathered under the cool moonlight, carrying the marks of time. On the lawn out front sat an old Ford pickup truck, parked crookedly, with a few empty beer bottles tossed into the bed. Nearby stood a basketball hoop, its net torn and ragged, swaying gently in the night wind.
Everything felt so ordinary, so full of everyday life—utterly out of place compared to the supersonic flight and energy resonance they had just experienced.
Carol stood there, frozen, staring at the house. Her body trembled uncontrollably—not from fear, but from a deep, soul-level stir.
She had been here before.
She couldn't remember when, or how—but she knew. Her mind was like an old film projector with bad wiring, flickering wildly with fragmented, silent black-and-white images.
She saw herself wearing grimy work pants, sitting on the porch's rocking chair with a bottle of ice-cold beer in hand, laughing with a Black woman whose face she couldn't quite make out, the two of them seemingly arguing about something.
She saw herself on this very lawn, lifting a little girl with pigtails high into the air. The girl's laughter seemed to cross time itself, ringing in her ears like silver bells.
She saw herself lying half-reclined on the hood of that old pickup truck with the same Black woman, pointing at a sky full of stars, her face lit with a fearless, flamboyant grin.
"Maria…"
The name slipped from Carol's throat unconsciously. Her eyes grew wet, her vision blurring.
Like a puppet pulled by invisible strings, she began walking toward the house—step by step. Her fingertips brushed over the chipped white porch railing, over the familiar rocking chair, until they finally came to rest before the dark green, timeworn wooden door.
Levi didn't follow. He remained standing quietly in the shadow of the lawn, like a statue. He knew this moment belonged to Carol alone. Any interruption would be a desecration. All he needed to do was act as a competent, invisible bodyguard—ensuring nothing foolish ruined this long-overdue reunion. His perception had already spread like a formless web, covering several kilometers in every direction. Nothing escaped his notice.
Carol raised her hand, hovering in midair. The door was right there—yet it felt impossibly far away.
Six years.
To her, it had been nothing more than gaps between missions, surreal dreams, and a set of forcibly implanted false memories. But to the people inside this house, it had been 2,190 real days and nights. A person officially declared dead in a test-flight accident, appearing on their doorstep late at night six years later—would that bring joy… or terror?
As she hesitated, locked in inner turmoil, the light inside the house suddenly flicked on with a 啪.
Then came a soft creeeak as the door opened a crack.
A tall Black woman in a gray cotton robe appeared in the doorway. She gripped an aluminum baseball bat tightly in her hands, staring warily at the unfamiliar silhouette stretched long by moonlight.
"Who are you? This is private property. Leave immediately, or I'm calling the police!"
Her voice was hoarse from sleep, but firm—steady, fearless.
Carol stared at that both familiar and unfamiliar face. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. It was her. Truly her. Time had left faint traces—fine lines at the corners of her eyes—but those eyes were the same as ever. Bright. Stubborn. Like polished obsidian.
"Maria…" Carol finally forced the name out, her voice raw, like sandpaper scraping.
Behind the door, Maria Rambeau stiffened violently. Her grip on the bat tightened until her knuckles turned white. That voice… that way of saying her name—only one person in the world ever spoke to her like that.
She narrowed her eyes instinctively, leaning into the yellow porch light to examine the blonde woman more closely. That face slowly, unmistakably overlapped with the one buried deepest in her memory.
"Car… Carol?" Maria's voice trembled with disbelief, as if she were speaking a dream she didn't dare believe in.
"No… that's impossible… you… you died…"
"It's me." Tears finally broke free, streaming down Carol's face. "Maria. It's me. I'm back."
"Oh my God…"
The baseball bat clattered to the wooden floor. Maria clapped both hands over her mouth, trying to hold back a sob—but the tears poured out anyway. She rushed forward and wrapped Carol in a crushing embrace, holding her as tightly as if she were trying to fuse them together, terrified that if she let go, Carol would vanish again—just like six years ago.
Two best friends, separated for six years, clung to each other under the quiet night porch, muffled sobs pouring out all the longing, pain, and injustice of those lost years.
"Mom? What's wrong? Who's outside?"
A sleepy, childish voice drifted from inside the house.
A girl around eleven or twelve, wearing pajamas decorated with cartoon spaceships, peeked out from behind Maria, rubbing her eyes. She stared curiously—and cautiously—at the blonde woman hugging her mother.
Carol slowly released Maria and crouched down, looking at the girl. At that instant, the floodgates of memory burst wide open.
This was Monica. Maria's daughter. The little one she'd once sworn to protect with her life. The "little troublemaker" who always followed her around, begging to learn how to fly planes.
"Hey there, Lieutenant Trouble," Carol said through tears, using a nickname only the two of them shared.
Monica Rambeau's eyes flew wide open. All traces of sleep vanished instantly. That name—only one person in the world called her that. The Carol Auntie who snuck her onto air force bases, taught her silly faces, and told her bedtime stories about the universe and the stars.
"Aunt Carol?"
Her eyes reddened instantly. Without hesitation, she launched herself into Carol's arms like a tiny cannonball, bursting into loud, heartbreaking sobs.
From the shadows of the lawn, Levi watched the scene with a faint smile tugging at his lips.
At least… it wasn't too late.
Some regrets in this universe still had a chance to be made right.
He didn't step forward to disturb the deeply moving reunion. Instead, he expanded his perception to its absolute limit.
He knew it.
S.H.I.E.L.D.'s flies were almost here. Faster than expected.
Sure enough, less than half an hour later—just as Maria had finally calmed down enough to invite Carol and Levi inside, the three of them sitting together with a dust-covered old photo album, crying and reminiscing—several piercing beams of headlights cut through the quiet town like blades.
In the album, a young Carol and Maria stood proudly beside an F-15 fighter jet, dressed in sharp flight suits. Carol in the photo smiled with wild confidence, her eyes full of love for the sky and hope for the future—nothing like the faintly lost, fragile woman she was now.
"They're here," Levi said calmly, setting down a cup of long-cold coffee.
Maria and Carol's faces tightened instantly. They rushed to the window and peeked through the curtain, seeing several black Chevrolet SUVs silently pull up outside. Men in black suits with earpieces moved swiftly, spreading out to surround the house with practiced precision.
That was no ordinary police presence.
"Who are they?" Maria asked, her voice trembling as she instinctively pulled Monica behind her.
"Government," Carol said gravely. "They've been chasing me ever since I came back to Earth."
"Don't worry."
Levi stood and stepped in front of them. His tall frame blocked both the window and their anxious line of sight.
"With me here, no one's laying a finger on you."
As soon as he finished speaking, the doorbell rang.
Ding. Ding. Ding.
Three evenly spaced chimes. Polite—yet oppressive.
Maria looked nervously at Levi and Carol. Levi gave her a reassuring glance, signaling her to take Monica upstairs. Then, unhurried, he walked over and opened the door.
Two men stood outside.
One wore a professional, practiced smile—Phil Coulson.
The other was unmistakable—the iconic one-eyed man himself, Nick Fury.
Fury's gaze swept past Levi immediately, landing on Carol in the living room behind him. His single eye flickered with complex emotions—surprise, wariness, and above all, a heavy gravity born of confronting something beyond understanding.
"Good evening, sir," Fury said first, his voice deep and commanding, carrying the authority of someone long used to giving orders.
"I'm Nick Fury, Director of the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division. We have some questions we need to discuss—with the lady behind you, and with you."
Quite the opening—reciting S.H.I.E.L.D.'s full, absurdly long name, clearly trying to press with rank and authority.
Levi didn't even lift his eyelids.
He leaned lazily against the doorframe, arms crossed. His tall body was like a wall, giving them no intention whatsoever of entering.
"She doesn't want to talk right now," he said simply, as casually as commenting on the weather.
Fury's brow twitched almost imperceptibly. He'd handled all kinds of difficult individuals—but this was the first time someone had shut him down so bluntly. Coulson's professional smile stiffened as well.
"Sir," Fury said, his tone sharpening, pressure radiating outward, "this is not a request. This concerns national security. We are authorized to detain any potential threat. I suggest you don't interfere."
"Threat?"
Levi finally looked up—and smiled. The smile carried open ridicule and contempt.
"You mean her?" He jerked his chin toward Carol. "Or me?"
Fury's lone eye narrowed sharply.
From Levi, he felt an overwhelming sense of danger—not the aura of a normal man, but the calm indifference born of absolute power. That kind of presence… he'd only felt it around a handful of legendary figures.
"We're also very interested in your identity," Fury said grimly, trying to regain control.
"My identity," Levi replied, his smile gone, eyes cold and distant,
"is not something you're qualified to know."
He paused.
"Director Fury, here's my advice. Right now—immediately—take your people and get the hell out of here. Don't disturb this family's reunion."
"Are you threatening a federal senior agent?" Coulson finally snapped, stepping forward.
Levi didn't even glance at him. Coulson might as well have been air. His gaze remained locked on Fury like twin scalpels.
Suddenly, Levi raised a single finger—and lightly tapped the air beside Fury.
Wnnng—
A faint, almost inaudible hum rippled through space.
About three meters away, beneath a tall oak tree, dense grass suddenly rustled. A muffled grunt escaped—and then a man in a ghillie suit, face painted for camouflage, was yanked bodily into midair by an invisible force. Along with him came his expensive Barrett anti-materiel rifle.
The sniper was casually tossed at Fury's feet like a discarded sack of rags.
The man lay limp and unconscious, with no visible injuries.
Fury's pupil contracted to a pinpoint.
The blood drained from Coulson's face, cold sweat pouring out instantly.
They hadn't seen Levi do anything. No energy fluctuations. No warning. The man had simply been seized by an invisible hand.
"I'll say it one last time," Levi said quietly. His voice wasn't loud—but it slammed into their chests like a frozen hammer.
"Get out."
Fury stared at him, mind racing at unimaginable speed. The ability on display was beyond comprehension—telekinesis? Psychic control? Spatial manipulation? Worse still, Levi had pinpointed a top-tier sniper hidden dozens of meters away with elite camouflage.
Force was not an option. Fury knew with absolute certainty that if Levi wanted them dead, it would take no more than a thought.
"What do you want?" Fury asked, instantly switching tactics, his tone softened. He knew threats were the dumbest possible approach. Only利益—interests—could form a bridge.
"I want nothing," Levi replied calmly, eyes filled with detached clarity.
"I just want to tell you one thing. This world is far bigger—and far more dangerous—than you imagine. That little 'Avengers Initiative' you keep hidden in the deepest drawer of your desk? In places you can't see, it doesn't even qualify as a children's game."
Fury's heart clenched as if seized by an invisible hand.
The Avengers Initiative.
Top-level S.H.I.E.L.D. classified intel. A proposal he'd drafted only after witnessing Carol's power and learning of the Kree. Only he and a tiny handful of trusted elites even knew it existed.
How did he know?!
At that moment, Fury finally understood—this was no mere superpowered individual. This was a ghost. An observer. A being with intelligence networks and power beyond imagination.
"We… need to talk," Fury said, drawing a deep breath, his tone unprecedentedly serious—almost pleading.
"Talk to me?"
Levi finally looked away from Fury, scanning him up and down with a faintly amused, evaluative gaze—like inspecting an inanimate object.
"Are you worthy?"
With that, he slammed the door shut.
Bang.
Outside, Coulson stared at the closed door, then at the unconscious sniper on the ground. Sweat streamed down his forehead like a river.
"Sir… what now?"
"Withdraw," Fury said with a single hoarse word.
He turned toward his vehicle. In his lone eye burned a light he'd never felt before—a mix of fear, frustration, and a spark of near-maniacal excitement.
The game… had just become far more interesting.
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