Langley, Virginia
Secure Interagency Conference Room
The room was deliberately anonymous.
No flags. No seals. No identifying insignia. Just a black conference table, soundproof walls, and a muted screen that displayed classified headers no civilian would ever see. This was where uncomfortable truths were handled—where jurisdiction stopped being a legal concept and became a negotiation.
Three agencies sat around the table, and none of them were happy.
Thomas Avery, CIA Station Chief for the Western Region, stood at the head of the room, hands loosely clasped behind his back. To his left sat Assistant Director Mark Feldman of the FBI, posture rigid, expression openly hostile. Across from Feldman was Rachel Kim, DHS Undersecretary for Intelligence and Analysis, calm but alert, eyes moving between the two men.
Avery broke the silence.
"We are here," he said evenly, "because two separate incidents involving the same individual have collided into a single strategic problem."
Feldman didn't wait.
"Two incidents?" he snapped. "You mean a charity gala interference and a paramilitary assault on a domestic extremist compound."
Kim raised an eyebrow. "Let's be precise, Mark."
Feldman turned to her. "Fine. Event one: the Van Nuys charity dinner. Armed suspects. Federal interest. Active investigation. Derek Morgan intervenes, neutralizes multiple assailants, contaminates the scene, and disappears before agents can even debrief witnesses."
He slapped a file onto the table.
"Event two: the Seventh Sons compound. Fifty-plus armed extremists. An ongoing FBI case—surveillance, financial tracking, long-term RICO build. Then a single actor in advanced armor walks in, disables the entire compound, and hands us probable cause on a silver platter."
He leaned forward.
"That second one blew up a decade-long investigation."
Avery finally turned from the screen.
"And yet," he said calmly, "you now have the Seventh Sons dismantled, their leadership alive, their compound searchable, and enough evidence to prosecute half their network."
Feldman's jaw tightened. "At the cost of operational control."
Kim interjected. "Let's acknowledge the distinction. The charity dinner was interference. The Seventh Sons incident was escalation."
"Vigilantism," Feldman shot back.
"Unilateral action," Avery corrected.
He tapped a remote. The screen lit up with two video stills side by side.
On the left: Derek Morgan at the charity dinner—young, composed, movements precise, face clearly visible.
On the right: The Wraith—armored, black-clad, absorbing rifle fire like rain.
"Same height. Same gait. Same movement economy," Avery said. "Ninety-eight point nine percent match."
The room went quiet.
Kim exhaled slowly. "So there's no doubt anymore."
"No," Avery said. "There isn't."
Feldman stared at the images. "Which means we're dealing with a civilian who—"
"—cured cancer," Avery interrupted.
That landed harder than any accusation.
Kim shifted in her seat. "We can't ignore that."
Avery changed the slide. Medical imaging filled the screen—before-and-after scans of Senator Pimble's daughter.
"Confirmed remission," Avery said. "Complete cellular regression. NIH consultants are… shaken."
Feldman scoffed. "That doesn't grant immunity."
"No," Avery agreed. "But it changes the consequences of action."
Kim leaned forward. "Let's frame this correctly. Derek Morgan committed two acts outside the system."
She raised one finger.
"At the charity dinner, he intervened in a violent crime. Ethically defensible, legally questionable."
A second finger.
"At the Seventh Sons compound, he conducted a unilateral strike against a known domestic terrorist organization—one under federal investigation."
She paused.
"Strategically catastrophic if mishandled."
Feldman nodded sharply. "Exactly. Which is why he should be arrested."
Avery turned to him fully now. "And charged with what, Mark?"
"Interfering with federal investigations. Assault. Use of prohibited technology."
"And then what?" Avery asked. "You put him in custody, and within forty-eight hours the press finds out that the man who cured cancer is in federal detention."
Feldman opened his mouth, then closed it.
Avery pressed on.
"Now add the Wraith footage. Add the Seventh Sons. Add the fact that foreign intelligence services are already circling."
The screen shifted again—Chinese and Russian intelligence assessments, red annotations blinking.
"China will assume this is a black project," Avery said. "Russia will assume the same. Both will attempt acquisition—through espionage or coercion."
Kim's voice was quiet. "And if they can't acquire him?"
"They'll try to neutralize him," Avery replied.
Feldman rubbed his face. "So what, we just let him run around in a combat suit picking targets?"
"No," Avery said firmly. "We don't endorse that behavior. But we don't criminalize him prematurely either."
Kim nodded. "From DHS's standpoint, this is no longer just law enforcement. This is national security. Biosecurity. Economic stability."
She glanced at Feldman.
"If Morgan releases that cancer treatment publicly without preparation, the oncology sector collapses overnight. Insurance markets. Pharmaceutical supply chains. Employment. Public trust."
Someone at the back of the room—DOJ liaison, silent until now—spoke.
"If this works at scale," he said quietly, "our entire oncology economy collapses."
The words hung heavy.
Feldman exhaled through his nose. "So what's the play, Thomas?"
Avery didn't hesitate.
"You don't arrest the man who just cured cancer," he said. "You assign him a handler."
Feldman stiffened. "Absolutely not. He interfered in two federal matters."
"And in one of them," Avery replied calmly, "he saved lives and exposed a domestic terror cell you were still watching from a distance."
Kim added, "Intent matters. So far, his pattern suggests restraint. No civilian deaths. No public statements. No attempts to leverage power."
Feldman shook his head. "That can change."
"Which is why we monitor," Avery said. "Closely."
He outlined it plainly.
"CIA takes soft lead. No arrests. No confrontations. Surveillance only. Behavioral analysis. Strategic intent assessment."
He turned to Feldman.
"FBI retains jurisdiction over both incidents, but is restricted to evidence-gathering. If Morgan commits a clear federal crime going forward, we revisit."
Feldman's jaw tightened, but he nodded once.
"And DHS," Avery continued, "models national security fallout. Infrastructure risk. Bio-defense implications. Domestic stability."
Kim inclined her head. "Understood."
The DOJ liaison cleared his throat. "And if he refuses cooperation when approached?"
Avery smiled faintly.
"Then we reassess," he said. "But we do not force the issue prematurely."
He stood, signaling the meeting's end.
"Let's be clear," Avery said, looking at each of them. "Derek Morgan is no longer just a subject tied to two incidents."
He glanced once more at the screen—the young man at the gala, the armored figure at the compound.
"He's a strategic variable with demonstrated capability, restraint, and leverage."
The agencies had come in divided.
They left aligned—not because they trusted Derek Morgan, but because the system understood something fundamental now:
The charity dinner proved he could act under pressure.
The Seventh Sons proved he could dismantle threats alone.
The cancer cure proved he could change the world.
And people like that weren't arrested lightly.
They were managed.
Watched.
And—if possible—brought inside the system before they outgrew it entirely.