Lucius climbed the stairs to Alias Investigations with a smile that felt earned. Money did that. It made the lungs work better. It made the day feel less heavy. Whoever claimed money could not buy happiness had never held the right amount of money, the kind that arrived in your account in seven figures and did not ask questions.
The hallway smelled like old paint and wet boots. The door at the end had a cheap frosted window with the words ALIAS INVESTIGATIONS.
He knocked once and pushed in.
The first thing he noticed was cheap alcohol. Not in a fun way. In a tired way. Like someone was trying to drown the world one glass at a time, and learning how good a swimmer the world is.
Jessica Jones sat behind a desk that looked like it had lost an argument with life. Black hair, tired face, eyes half closed like blinking was optional. A bottle sat somewhere in the background like it paid rent.
Lucius took a moment to catalogue it.
If Killgrave existed in this version of reality, he was going on Lucius's shopping list right after mobility. He did not know if the purple-loving villain was alive here. This universe was not the comics. This Earth was a modified 199999. Modified was a polite word for 'someone messed with the settings. The cinematic lane and the word modified did not come with a user manual.
Jessica Jones, being one of the best PIs in the city, was still accurate with Cinematic lane.
"Miss Jones," Lucius greeted, polite enough to qualify as a threat.
Jessica's gaze lifted slowly.
"Either you are lost," she replied, "or you have too much money."
Lucius stepped closer and offered his hand like he was in a meeting, not a hangover.
"Your name was given to me by someone who had the privilege of using your services," he said. "I would like you to find someone for me."
Jessica looked at his hand like it was a trick.
She did not take it.
Her eyes moved over him, quick and sharp. Not the scan of a flirt. The scan of someone deciding how much trouble you were in.
"You are not the type of client I usually get," she said.
Lucius's smile sharpened.
"You mean I am not old, sweaty, and entitled?" He stated.
Jessica's mouth twitched.
"Usually they are all three," she answered.
He pulled out a small envelope and set it on the desk.
Jessica's eyes dipped to it. Her posture changed by half an inch. Not softer. Just more awake.
"Mr…" she started.
"Noctis," Lucius supplied.
"Mr Noctis," she continued, "have a seat."
He sat without slouching. The chair creaked like it resented anyone with a straight spine.
Jessica leaned back, fingers tapping the desk once.
"All right," she said. "Who are we finding?"
"A man," Lucius replied. "Bald. Covered in tribal tattoos from head to toe. He is a criminal, and he moves around like he never learned to stay in one place."
Jessica's eyes narrowed.
"That is half of Queens," she replied.
Lucius let the humour sit for a beat. Jessica held his gaze.
"Name," she asked.
"I do not know his real name," Lucius replied. "People call him Vanisher."
Jessica's eyebrows rose slightly.
"That sounds like a comic book," she said.
Lucius simply smiled. Jessica sat forward.
"You want him found," she said. "You are paying cash. That means you are not asking nicely."
Lucius tilted his head.
"I am asking professionally," he corrected.
Jessica gave a short laugh that held no joy.
"Professionally," she repeated. "Fine. Two questions. One, why do you want him? Two, how much trouble follows you?"
Lucius looked around the office, then back to her.
"I want him because he has something I need," he replied. "And trouble follows me the way flies follow fruit."
Jessica's eyes flicked to the envelope again.
"It will cost you." She motined to the envelope. "How much is there?"
Lucius named a number without blinking.
Jessica stared for a second, then nodded once.
"Two days," she said. "Maybe three."
Lucius's smile stayed.
Jessica slid the envelope into a drawer like it had always been there.
"One more thing," Lucius added.
Jessica's eyes narrowed again.
"Of course," she replied. "There is always one more thing."
"I need something to find bugs," Lucius said. "Microphones. Cameras. The kind people hide when they stop asking permission."
Jessica leaned back, tired expression returning.
"You are asking for counter-surveillance," she said.
Lucius nodded.
"I assume my walls are already seeing and listening, and I hate freeloaders," he replied.
Jessica stared at him.
"Probably," she said.
She reached under the desk, pulled out a battered card, and scribbled something on it.
"I have a guy," she said. "He can get you a handheld RF detector, the kind that picks up transmitters, and a lens finder flashlight for hidden cameras. Old school. Not magic. Works if they are stupid."
Lucius took the card.
"And if they are not stupid," he asked.
Jessica's mouth tightened.
"Then you are already screwed," she replied. "But you look like the kind of guy who enjoys that."
Lucius' smile dropped. "Miss Jones, from your attitude, I am sure you deserved whatever made you into this little bitch. My regards for the reason for your current misery. You look like a girl who enjoys that."
He stood and left.
Jessica stood where she was, maybe... just maybe he did not liked her last joke she thought. But his retort was head-on...
"I will have it delivered to your address today," she murmured to no one. Her mind is already going back to the reason for her current self.
He drove back toward Queens, taking a slow tour of the city on purpose. Not because he was sightseeing. Because three cars had been tailing him, and he wanted to keep them awake and guessing.
2007, New York looked familiar in the wrong way. Flip phones. Older taxis. Billboards for things he remembered from another life. The city still had that dirty energy, like it was always one bad mood away from biting you.
--
While Lucius watched the skyline, other people were already trying to figure out what the miraculous liquid was.
Nick Fury was one of them. He needed answers.
In a lab that did not advertise itself on a map, Fury stood with his hands behind his back, eye patch still as a threat. Men and women in lab coats moved around him like they were afraid of breathing too loudly.
On a steel table sat four vials. Light red.
A tech lifted one carefully, ran it through machines that hummed and clicked, then stared at the screen as it had insulted him.
He ran it again, then again.
He turned to Fury with the slow dread of a man reporting something that would get him fired.
"Sir," he said.
Fury's face did not move.
"What?" Fury replied.
"The results," the tech said, voice strained. "It is apple and spinach with honey. It reads like juice."
Fury blinked once. There was no anger in his sole eye, just disbelief.
"Repeat it," Fury ordered.
"We did," the tech replied. "Twice."
Fury's jaw tightened.
"Do it with another sample," he said.
The tech hesitated. Fury's voice cooled.
"Now."
The tech grabbed a second vial. The same result came back.
Apple, spinach and honey. Fury stared at the screen.
"That bastard sold us juice," he muttered. "Juice with healing properties."
He did not sound amused. He sounded interested.
"Find out where the vials were made," Fury ordered. "Find out who this Lucius Noctis is. His friends, school and money. Anything. I want his life on my desk."
"Yes, sir," the lab coat replied.
The same result was coming from other places doing the same analysis.
People who had paid millions stared at lab printouts and felt personally insulted by fruit.
-
Far from the drama, Lucius returned to his street and saw another set of cars waiting.
Sedans, a limo and men in coats pretending they were not guards.
He parked, stepped out, and smiled like a shopkeeper about to open for a holiday rush.
"Thank you, Fox," he murmured, then walked up to receive more money.
Jessica, the bitch kept her word.
A package arrived, plain brown box, no return address that mattered. Inside sat a handheld RF bug detector, a chunky black device with a simple bar display, and a small lens finder flashlight designed to catch the reflection off hidden camera lenses.
Lucius spent an afternoon sweeping his house.
He moved from room to room with the detectors in one hand and annoyance in the other.
The device chirped like a nervous bird. Behind a baseboard, inside a vent, under a lamp, behind the television. He pulled out microphones like he was harvesting a crop. Cameras came next, ten of them. He found three in places that at least made professional sense.
Then he found one in the bathroom. Then another. He stood in the doorway for a long moment, holding a tiny camera.
"Nasty," he said calmly.
He removed them all. He did not smash them. That would have been emotional.
He bagged them. He was going to use them back later, just to see who would react.
On the morning of 25 December, Lucius opened his door while singing Carol of the Bells.
He was feeling festive. Outside, the porch was crowded again. Cars lined the curb. A limousine sat like a statement. A driver in a suit waited beside it, hand on the back door.
Lucius recognised him. One of his regulars. The driver opened the door, and an old man stepped out. He moved slowly, but he moved. That alone said enough. His health had improved enough to leave the house and come here personally.
That meant one of two things. More cooperation or more demands.
Lucius smiled warmly, already counting the cash from the Light Stamina Potions he had kept in reserve. He had not released those yet. First, he needed credibility. next he needed dependency.
He spread his hands, welcoming.
"All seems to say, throw cares away," he sang, voice light.
The old man blinked.
Lucius kept going.
"Christmas is here, bringing good cheer."
He stepped down onto the porch.
"To young and old, meek and the bold."
He looked from the old man to the line of cars.
His smile widened.