The morning light was an intruder. It filtered through the blinds in thin, surgical strips, cutting across the tangled sheets and the quiet stillness of the room. For a few fragile minutes, the world was small. It was just the sound of steady breathing and the warmth of Peter's arm draped over Felicia's waist under the covers.
As the sun climbed higher, the light hit their face waking them up. Felicia stirred and leaned over, smiled, and stole the blanket to cover herself as she went to shower first.
After showering and getting dressed, their morning could finally begin. Felicia hummed a tune that wasn't quite on tune while she brewed the coffee; Peter sat at the small kitchen table, his fingers tracing the wood grain.
Peter smirked and said, "You're off key."
"Oh, really, we've got a music critic here, huh?" responded Felicia with a smirk.
The light atmosphere soon turned silent after that. They looked like any other couple in Queens, but the silence between them was heavy, pregnant with the things they weren't saying.
The peace broke with a sharp, insistent vibration. Peter's phone skittered across the table.
He picked it up, his face hardening as he read. "It's Ethan," he said, his voice flat.
He turned the screen so Felicia could see. It wasn't a text; it was a data dump. Schematics of Alcatraz flickered into view—not the tourist maps, but deep-level structural layouts of a high-security containment wing hidden beneath the bedrock. Layers of psionic shielding, automated turrets, and the heat signature that Peter figured to be Charles Xavier.
A follow-up message scrolled across the bottom: 'Do not contact Jean Grey. Her telepathy is uncontrolled in her current state of grief. If she touches your mind and sees how we know this, she won't follow the plan. She'll burn the island down. Stick to the architecture, Peter. I'll see you at the extraction point.'
"He's already moving," Peter murmured, rubbing his temples. "He expects me to just... walk into a government black site and kidnap the world's most powerful telepath without telling his family."
Felicia set a mug down in front of him, her hand lingering on his shoulder for a second too long. "He expects you to find another ally besides the X-Men guys, probably. I mean, he did say he wanted you to find people to help, so I guess you'll have to look into your contacts and find someone."
"And what about you?" Peter asked, looking up. "Where is he pointing you today?"
Felicia took a slow sip of her coffee, the heat grounding her. "I'm going to meet my new 'co-workers.' Apparently, the kid thinks they need a chaperone, and I'm it."
An hour later, Felicia stood in the shadows of a decommissioned shipyard in Brooklyn. She wasn't wearing the white fur and black spandex of the Cat. Instead, she wore a sharp, charcoal-grey business suit, her hair tucked into a severe blonde bob wig, and heavy-rimmed glasses that altered the geometry of her face.
Waiting for her were two women who looked like they belonged in a nightmare, standing amidst the skeletal remains of rusted cranes and salt-cracked concrete.
Madame Masque stood with her back to the dark water of the East River, her silhouette sharp and aristocratic. She was draped in a high-collared, form-fitting tactical bodysuit of white and black, but it was her face that commanded the air. A seamless plate of polished gold covered her features, devoid of expression save for the two hollow, dark slits that housed her eyes. The mask caught the dull morning light, reflecting a cold, metallic glare that made her look less like a woman and more like an idol of a forgotten, vengeful goddess.
Beside her, Delilah leaned against a rusted shipping container with a lethal, languid grace. She was a striking contrast to Masque's rigid gold—her skin was a deep, rich bronze, and her hair was a shock of vibrant purple, partially shaved on one side in a way that screamed defiance. She wore a sleeveless tactical vest over a dark bodysuit, revealing the powerful, corded muscle of her arms. Her eyes, sharp and predatory, tracked Felicia's approach while she idly toyed with a combat knife, the blade catching the light as she spun it with practiced, effortless boredom.
The air between them was already thick with mutual indifference—a collision of Masque's cold, calculated elitism and Delilah's raw, but cold, assassin-like lethality.
"You're late," Masque said, her voice a muffled, metallic rasp behind the plate. "Moreau said his 'Secretary' was punctual."
"Traffic in the city is a bitch, Whitney. I'm sure you remember what it's like to have a face people actually look at," Felicia replied, her voice pitched into a professional, icy clip. She stepped into the center of the pier. "I'm here to ensure Luc's investment isn't squandered by ego. You can call me 'The Secretary.'"
Delilah looked up, her predatory eyes scanning Felicia from head to toe. "You don't look like a field agent. You look like you're lost on the way to a board meeting."
"I find that people tell 'the help' everything," Felicia said, leaning against a crate. "It's a unique perspective. Now, Luc tells me you're heading out to play recruitment officer?"
Delilah stood up straight, sheathing her knife. "The Golem's crew suffered quite the loss last time, so they seem to be wavering. Madame Rapier, Constrictor, Shocker, and Jack O'Lantern... they're mercenaries at heart. They don't like losing out, and the Hood's collapse, followed by the NYPD's recent attack on the Golem's business, has made them nervous. I'm going to make them an offer they can't refuse: work for us, or disappear with the rest of the trash."
"Efficient," Felicia noted. "Go. Play with your toys. I have another line of the infrastructure to secure."
Masque narrowed her eyes. "Moreau didn't mention you had independent assignments. Would you care to share with the rest of the class?"
"No, that's between Moreau and me. That's why he pays me the big bucks, darling," Felicia tossed over her shoulder as she walked away.
Once she was clear of the pier, Delilah pulled out a secure satellite phone and dialed a French country code. "Luc. The Secretary was here. She's... a bit of a bitch."
"She is a specialist, Delilah," Ethan's voice came through, calm and in a French accent. "She sees the parts of the city that you and Whitney would be unable to. Trust her instincts and advice. It took quite the effort to get her to agree to do this, so play nice, chère."
Felicia sat in a stolen sedan three blocks away from the 13th Precinct. She took out the sleek, black phone Ethan had provided—the one that she didn't know if it even existed on any network. She tapped an icon labeled 'V-VOICE' and felt a strange vibration in the palm of her hand as the phone's internal hardware prepared to mask her.
She dialed a direct line.
"Watanabe," the voice on the other end snapped. Yuri sounded like she hadn't slept since the raid.
"Hello, Detective," Felicia said. To Yuri, the voice sounded like a melodic, synthesized hum—unidentifiable, sexless, and bouncing between three different area codes per second. "You may call me 'The Associate.' Our mutual friend, ShadowStitch, is currently occupied with higher-level things. I've been asked to step in as your liaison for the... crime cleaning process."
There was a long silence on the other end. Felicia could practically hear Yuri's jaw tightening.
"I don't like 'associates,'" Yuri hissed. "I barely tolerate the one I have. What do you want?"
"To help you finish what you started at the pier," Felicia said, watching a squad car roll past. "The Hood was quite a headache. But Wilson Fisk is a migraine. I have been tasked with helping you to put a leash on the underworld, Detective. I'm going to give you the names, the dates, and the locations that ShadowStitch would have given to you. I thought it might be easier to work together if we could talk rather than email, as that is not my style. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, by the way."
"You're quite talkative for a voice on the phone," Yuri noted.
"I'm a woman of this city, Detective. And I simply wish to do my part for my home. It's time we made sure the rats aren't running the kitchen. I'll be in touch Detective, have a nice day."
Felicia ended the call and leaned back against the headrest. She looked at her reflection in the rearview mirror. She hated playing these roles that were unlike her, like her Black Cat persona, but Ethan convinced her that these identities would protect the normal life she was trying to build with Peter.
She thought of Peter, 'I'm sorry, Pete,' she thought, shifting the car into gear. 'But the kid is right. It's too dangerous to leave Fisk alive in a time of crisis.'