While the night in Harlem had been a symphony of destruction, Aryan's mind was playing a game of grand strategy on several boards at once. Before he had even fully secured the Abomination, his Omega Precognition had highlighted another critical vulnerability—or opportunity—in the chaos: Dr. Samuel Sterns.
Deep within the bowels of a makeshift laboratory in Harlem, Sterns was undergoing a transformation that was as much intellectual as it was physical. His cranium was expanding, his synapses firing at speeds that would melt a normal human brain.
Through the Clone Authority, a invisible version of himself materialized inside the lab.
The clone stood over Sterns, watching the man's skin pulse with a sickly green light. Too early to talk, Aryan thought through his link. But just the right time to pack.
The lab began to vanish. Using the dimensional storage of his private realm, the clone systematically stripped the room. Centrifuges, high-speed servers, vials of Banner's irradiated blood, and even the loose scribbles on napkins—everything was swept into the void.
"Red Queen," Aryan ordered from his car miles away. "Scrub the digital footprint. I want this room to be a ghost."
"Surveillance archives purged," her voice chimed in his ear. "Redundancies deleted. As far as the world is known, this laboratory never existed."
Minutes later, Sterns' eyes snapped open. He sat up, his head feeling heavy and vast, but the scream died in his throat. The hum of his machines was gone. The smell of chemicals had vanished. He was sitting in a hollowed-out shell of a building.
"This… this isn't possible," Sterns whispered.
"If you walk out that door, Samuel," a voice drifted from a shimmering blur in the corner, "the military will be waiting. They'll pin the Abomination on you. You'll spend the rest of your life in a high-security cage, and they'll harvest that brain of yours for parts."
Sterns stiffened, his hyper-sensitive mind instantly calculating the probability. The stranger was right. "Who are you?"
"Someone who appreciates your potential," the blur replied. "I'm offering you an island. A place where the budget is infinite and the ethics are… flexible. Work for me, and you keep your mind. Refuse, and you lose everything."
Sterns didn't even hesitate. A dimensional gateway opened like a tear in the air, and the scientist stepped through, disappearing into a private paradise where his laboratory was already waiting for him, reconstructed to the last bolt.
The clone lingered for a moment, sensing a new presence. Natasha Romanoff—the Black Widow—slipped into the room, her pistol drawn, her eyes darting across the empty space. She frowned, her gloved hand touching a spot where a massive server had sat seconds ago. The floor was spotless. No dust. No struggle.
Behind her, the invisible clone walked past her but she did not notice anything.
The morning sun rose over Manhattan, indifferent to the craters in Harlem. Aryan stood by the window of his office, his white shirt sleeves rolled up, looking out at the city. A forgotten cup of coffee sat on his stone cold.
The door swung open. Sharon Carter walked in, looking sharp despite the late night, a folder tucked under her arm.
"Please tell me you slept," she said, her voice a mix of professional concern and personal curiosity.
Aryan didn't turn around. "Define sleep, Sharon. If you mean 'shut my eyes and dreamt,' then no. If you mean 'remained stationary for four hours,' then also no."
She sighed, leaning against his desk. "That's not encouraging."
Wanda followed shortly after, her hair slightly damp from a morning shower, her coat half-buttoned as if she'd rushed to the office the moment she woke up. She stopped when she saw the two of them. "Oh good," she said lightly, trying to mask the residual adrenaline from the night before. "I didn't miss the post-apocalypse briefing."
Aryan turned then, and a genuine smile touched his face. "We decided to keep it informal."
"By informal, he means pretending Harlem didn't become a gladiator pit for radioactive nightmares," Sharon said, sliding the folder across the desk. "The news is calling it an 'incident.' A 'localized structural failure.' It's a joke."
"It's branding," Aryan corrected, taking a seat. "'Incident' sounds like a parking ticket. 'Massacre' scares the public. Umbrella prefers a calm public."
Wanda studied him, her head tilted. She walked closer, her eyes searching his face. "You're… different today, Aryan."
He raised an eyebrow. "Different bad, or different tolerable?"
"Tolerable," Wanda said, a soft smile blooming. "Maybe even pleasant. You look like the weight of the world is actually sitting comfortably for once."
Sharon smirked, catching Wanda's eye. "Careful, Wanda. Compliments might go to his head. He'll start thinking he's charming."
"Unlikely," Aryan said, his voice dropping into that smooth like tone. "I've just had worse mornings. Waking up to a city that is still standing and coffee that isn't poisoned counts as a victory in my book."
Sharon's expression turned serious as she leaned over the desk. "Alright. Officially, today is damage control. But unofficially—Aryan, you owe us an explanation. You stayed so calm in that car. It wasn't just 'corporate cool.' It was like you knew exactly how the fight was going to end."
Wanda nodded, leaning forward too. The two women formed a united front of curiosity. "We're not asking for your secret files. Just… how? How do you not panic when the world starts tearing itself apart?"
Aryan took a slow sip of his cold coffee, his gaze drifting between them. The truth—that he had been on a rooftop invisible, manipulating the magnetic fields of a God—remained behind his teeth.
"I wasn't calm," he said eventually. "I just didn't see the benefit of panicking out loud. Panic is a luxury for people who have someone else to fix their problems. I've spent a long time being the person who has to do the fixing."
Sharon considered that, her agent's mind deconstructing his words. "Are you always this composed? Or did you just pick it up at CEO school?"
"I'm experienced at surviving bad days, Sharon. When you've seen enough of them, the roars get quieter."
Wanda's expression softened. She reached out, her fingers grazing his sleeve for just a second. "Most people would have cracked. They would have run. But you stayed steady for us. Thank you for getting us out of there."
Aryan met her gaze, his sapphire eyes clear. "Anytime, Wanda. Truly."
Sharon checked her watch, breaking the moment with a professional cough. "The media is circling. The Department of Defense wants a statement. Everyone wants to know why Umbrella's satellites were the only ones that didn't go dark during the blackout."
"They won't get answers today," Aryan said, standing up and pulling his jacket back on. "Umbrella sticks to its own timeline. Let the world guess."
Wanda stood, gathering her things to head to her department, but she paused at the door, looking back at him. "You're a very strange man, Aryan Spencer. But I think I'm starting to like 'strange.'"
He smiled as she left, then turned to Sharon. "Progress is slow, Sharon. Don't expect me to start telling jokes in the elevator just yet."
"I'll take what I can get," Sharon laughed, following Wanda out.
As the door clicked shut, Aryan's smile faded into a look of calculated focus. The pieces were on the board. He had his scientist. He had his monster. And he had the trust of the two most dangerous women in the city.
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