(AN: Here's a chapter for today! I'll add another one because someone leaved a review. :D )
Nick Fury arrived before dawn.
The street was already sealed—black vans, portable lights, agents moving with clipped efficiency—but no amount of procedure could hide what had happened here.
The air still smelled wrong. Burnt ozone. Copper. Something older, sharper.
Phil Coulson was waiting when Fury stepped out of the vehicle, tablet tucked under his arm, expression carefully neutral.
"Sir," Coulson began, then hesitated.
"…before I give the report—have you ever watched Predator?"
Fury stopped walking.
Slowly, he turned his one good eye toward Coulson. No words were uttered.
Yet Coulson nodded once.
Fury exhaled through his nose. "God help us."
They walked together now, past scorch marks carved clean through asphalt, past bodies already being covered.
Fury didn't look away—but his jaw tightened.
"So," Fury said, "monsters from old movies decided to give our world a visit."
"Yes, sir," Coulson replied. "More than one franchise, apparently."
He activated the tablet.
"First anomaly occurred twelve minutes before the Iron Serpent convoy reached Mercer's neighborhood. Satellite surveillance caught a brief atmospheric distortion—small, controlled entry. Not a meteor. Not a craft we recognize."
An image appeared: grainy, zoomed, but unmistakable.
Two shapes ejecting from a compact structure—angular, brutal, deliberate.
"Deployment bunkers," Coulson continued.
"Temporary. Similar to the opening sequence in Alien vs. Predator. Same silhouette. Same heat signature decay."
Fury's eye narrowed. "You're telling me they landed, geared up, and went hunting."
"Yes, sir."
"And the weapons?"
Coulson swiped to the next set of images. Netting residue. Circular cauterized wounds.
A wall sliced clean through like paper.
"Plasma casters. Monofilament nets. Telescoping spears. Active camouflage. Voice mimicry."
Coulson paused. "Every tool used matches the Predator species as depicted in the films. Functionally. Tactically."
Fury was silent for a long moment.
"Continue."
Coulson hesitated again—but this time, it wasn't for effect.
"There's another layer to this, sir. A pattern."
Fury looked at him.
"I don't like patterns."
"Yes, sir. Neither do I."
Coulson brought up a new file.
"Iron Serpent Gang. Local but expanding. This splinter cell is connected to the group apprehended weeks ago—the same ones who targeted Elias Mercer."
Fury's expression darkened.
"Those men," Coulson went on, "were later slaughtered in federal custody… by a xenomorph."
Silence stretched.
"And tonight?" Fury said quietly.
"The same gang," Coulson replied, "targets Elias Mercer again."
He didn't need to say the rest.
"They are slaughtered again," Coulson finished.
"This time by Predators."
Fury stopped walking.
The lights hummed overhead.
Somewhere, a body bag was zipped shut.
"Once," Fury said slowly, "is an incident."
Coulson nodded.
"Twice," Fury continued, "is coincidence."
"Yes, sir."
"But twice with different monsters," Fury said, turning back toward the carnage, "protecting the same man?"
Coulson didn't answer immediately.
"That," Fury said, "is intent."
He stared at the street as if it might answer him back.
"If this keeps escalating," Coulson said carefully, "the films suggest an inevitable collision. Predators hunt xenomorphs. Ritualistically. Deliberately."
"Which means," Fury said, voice low, "we're not looking at random invasions."
"No, sir," Coulson agreed. "We're looking at a system."
Fury thought of Harlem.
Of the bakery.
Of a quiet man who sold pie and somehow sat at the center of monsters.
After a long moment, he turned back to Coulson.
"Don't move on Mercer," Fury said. "Don't warn him. Don't touch him."
"Yes, sir."
Frankly? Why would he?
Fury's gaze hardened.
"Get me Natasha."
Coulson blinked. "Black Widow, sir?"
Fury nodded once.
"If there's a spiderweb here," he said, "I want the one person who knows how to walk through it without getting caught."
He looked back at the street one last time.
"And Phil?"
"Yes, sir?"
Fury's voice was grim.
"Tell her this isn't a monster problem anymore."
He paused.
"It's a man problem."
The lights continued to burn over the dead.
.
.
.
Mercer House
The rewards came quietly.
No fanfare. No music. Just cold, undeniable numbers floating before Elias' eyes.
[LEVEL UP CONFIRMED
Level: 2 → 8]
The jump alone made his chest tighten.
[Experience: 6 / 16]
So close to the next threshold—and yet so far. He already understood what that meant now.
Progress wasn't linear anymore.
Nothing about this was.
Then the abilities scrolled.
[Telekinesis
Level: 2 → Level: 8
Current Load Capacity: 100 tons (100,000,000 kg)]
(AN: The summon ability doesn't have a level, so does the mini-map.]
Elias stared at the number longer than he should have.
A hundred tons
.
He could lift buildings now. Vehicles. Tanks. Maybe more.
The weight of that knowledge hit harder than the power itself.
His new full status flickered to life.
[Villain System
Status
Name: Elias Mercer
Level: 8
Experience: 6/16
Designation: Villain — Novice
Abilities:
Telekinesis — Level 8
• Current Limit: 100 Ton
Summon
•Xenomorph
°Evolved(Hulk Blood)
•Yautja Hunters x2
Tactical Mini-Map (Passive)
Skills:
Unforgivable Curses (HP world)
- Imperius (maxed)
- Crucio (maxed)
- Avada Kedavra (maxed)
Charms (HP world)
- Obliviate (maxed)
Inventory
Slots: 30
Occupied: 12/ 30
Slot 1: Facehugger Eggs ×2
Slot 2: Lightsaber — Corrupted Variant (Red / Crimson)
… ]
Exhaustion rolled over him like a tide he couldn't fight.
His body gave up before his thoughts could spiral further.
Elias collapsed onto his bed, shoes still on, jacket half-unzipped—
And slept
.
Deep. Dreamless. Heavy.
He never saw the blinking prompt.
[NEW OBJECTIVE AVAILABLE
Find your first General]
Morning sunlight dragged him back to consciousness.
Elias squinted, groaned, and rolled onto his side. The prompt was still there when he opened his eyes—hovering patiently, insistently.
He read it.
Then dismissed it.
"Not today," he muttered.
He showered. Dressed. Ate a quick breakfast.
The world hadn't ended while he slept, and for once, that was enough.
He locked the house behind him and headed for work.
.
.
.
By all logic, Mercer's Hearth should have been closed.
After Harlem.
After Queens Alley.
After the explosions, the sirens, the rumors of something hunting armed men in the streets.
Businesses shut down after things like that. People stayed home. Fear was bad for foot traffic.
But logic stayed outside the shop.
By eight-thirty, the bell over the door was ringing nonstop.
By nine, all six of them were rotating stations like a well-drilled crew—Mara on register, Rhea managing orders, two employees handling drinks, one on pastries, Elias stepping in wherever the pressure spiked.
The place was packed.
And the orders were… simple.
No experimental flavors. No complicated requests.
Just—
"Coffee cake and black coffee."
"Two donuts. Plain. And a latte."
"Coffee cake, warmed. Please."
"Black coffee. No sugar."
Over and over.
Elias noticed it when a construction worker—still dusty, still tense—took his first bite of coffee cake.
The man's shoulders dropped an inch.
His jaw unclenched.
He exhaled like he hadn't breathed properly in days.
At a corner table, an elderly woman folded her hands around a mug and whispered, "It's quiet in here," not as an observation—but a prayer.
Two college students argued softly near the window.
"I'm telling you, it's denial," one said.
"People just don't want to think about it."
The other shook her head, biting into a donut.
"No. It's not that. It's like—" She paused, searching for the word. "Like nothing bad can happen while you're here."
A man in a business suit sat alone, phone face-down, news notifications ignored.
He stared into his coffee like it held answers.
When Elias passed by, the man looked up and said, almost embarrassed, "My wife told me to come here."
Elias blinked. "For…?"
"She said if the world's going to hell," the man said quietly, "I should at least have something that reminds me what normal feels like."
Near the counter, a pair of off-duty cops stood shoulder to shoulder.
One of them scanned the room out of habit—eyes sharp, posture rigid. The other sipped his coffee and sighed.
"If this place goes," the second cop said, "I'm officially calling it. That's when we panic."
A mother coaxed her young son into finishing a donut.
The boy swung his legs under the chair, crumbs on his shirt.
"Is it safe here?" he asked suddenly.
The mother froze.
Elias didn't even realize he'd stopped moving until the boy looked at him.
"Yes," Elias said gently, without thinking. "It is."
The boy nodded, satisfied, and went back to eating.
No one questioned it.
That was the strangest part.
People didn't come for answers.
They didn't come to ask about aliens or gangs or explosions.
They came because, somehow, this place made the noise fade.
Because the coffee was ordinary.
The cake was simple.
The donuts weren't special.
But the calm was.
Mercer's Hearth didn't feel like denial.
It felt like shelter.
And as Elias moved between tables, hands steady, expression calm.
The shop was full.
Full of people who believed—if only for a moment—that everything was going to be okay.
That, for Elias, was best comfort he got. He found himself a moment to breath alone in the washroom.
His shop opened before the system arrived.
All of this was happening through his hands alone without intervention. He was not a villain! He never wanted to be and will never become one!
He washes his face and stare at his reflection in the mirror.
"I am not a Villain." He convinced himself even with the system blinking by the corner of his eyes.
[Objective:
Find your first General.]
.
.
.
Natasha Romanoff didn't enter Mercer's Hearth like an operative.
She entered like someone who needed a place to sit.
Civilian clothes—comfortable, forgettable. Jeans, a dark jacket, hair tied back without care.
No weapon outlines. No sharp edges. If there was a disguise, it was normalcy itself.
The bell over the door chimed.
No one looked up for long.
That alone told her something.
She stepped aside as two customers exited, exchanged a quiet thank you with Mara as she passed the counter, and waited her turn without impatience.
When it came, she ordered exactly what the board's smudged chalk suggested was most popular.
"Coffee cake. Black coffee."
Rhea smiled. "Good choice."
Natasha took the cup, the plate, paid in cash, and moved—not randomly, but not deliberately enough to be noticed—to a table with a clean view of the room.
Entrances.
Exits.
Counter.
Staff.
Owner.
Elias Mercer wasn't behind the counter.
He hadn't been all morning.
He stood near the back half of the shop, leaning against a shelf, sleeves rolled, watching—not staring, not hovering. Just… present.
When the line swelled, he drifted closer. When it eased, he stepped back.
When a customer's voice sharpened, he moved—not toward them, but between them and everyone else, like a human buffer.
Natasha sipped her coffee.
It was… good. Simple. Grounded. Nothing fancy.
Around her, people talked.
Not loudly. Not in hushed conspiracy. Just… talked.
"—still can't believe what they showed on the news—"
"—Harlem's still blocked, right?"
"—my cousin says SHIELD's lying—"
None of it escalated.
A man who looked like he'd slept in his car snapped once, sharp and sudden, at a woman who bumped his chair.
Elias was there before Natasha finished blinking—not aggressive, not apologetic.
"Hey," he said, calm and firm. "You're alright. She didn't mean it."
The man exhaled. Just like that. Shoulders dropping. A muttered apology followed.
The woman nodded, embarrassed but not afraid.
No raised voices. No authority flexed.
Containment without force.
Natasha made a note.
She stayed an hour.
Then two.
Then she left.
She came back the next day.
Same order.
Different table.
She watched patterns now.
The way Elias never blocked an exit.
The way he positioned himself so others always had space to move past him.
The way the staff looked to him—not for permission, but reassurance.
Mara laughed more when he was nearby.
Rhea's shoulders eased when he passed.
The others—two more employees rotating in and out—worked faster, smoother, like the shop itself breathed better when he was there.
Customers calmed down inside the space.
Not obedient. Not dulled.
Just… steady.
Natasha had been trained to notice coercion, manipulation, influence disguised as kindness.
This wasn't that.
This was environmental.
She came back a third day.
Then a fourth.
No one questioned her presence.
She became background.
Elias noticed her, of course.
He noticed everyone.
But he didn't feel danger.
No system alert.
No pressure behind the eyes.
No red designation hovering in the corner of his awareness.
Just another customer.
He knew who she was. Of course he did. Nick Fury didn't send flowers when he wanted answers.
But she wasn't probing him.
She was watching the shop.
The people.
And so Elias did what he always did.
He helped when the rush surged.
Stepped in when tempers frayed.
Let the quiet settle when it wanted to.
He didn't change his habits.
Didn't hide.
Didn't perform.
If she was here to understand, then understanding was her problem.
Days passed and turned to a week.
Then weeks.
On the 3rd day of the 3rd week, Natasha finished her coffee and didn't immediately leave.
She watched a child spill a drink.
Watched the mother panic.
Watched Elias crouch, joke, replace the drink without charge.
The child laughed.
The mother exhaled like she'd been holding her breath all day.
Natasha realized something then.
Elias Mercer wasn't guarding the shop.
He was guarding the people inside it.
And that—more than monsters, more than alien blood, more than invisible hunters—
That was what unsettled her most.
Because Fury hadn't sent her to find a weapon.
He'd sent her to find out what kind of man the world had accidentally built around itself.
And so far?
And Elias Mercer remained exactly who he'd always been.