M101- I’m In!

When Nero returned, the others were still riding the high of what they had done. They had crushed a network that had its roots in every part of the world—crime, politics, finance, tech, war. It should have felt like a victory. It should have been something to celebrate.

But the second they saw him, the mood shifted.

No one spoke at first. The air, once buzzing with easy conversation, quieted. Drinks were still in hands, the remains of food untouched on the table. Someone had been in the middle of laughing, but the sound cut off awkwardly.

They weren’t used to this.

Nero had walked through hell since the day he reclaimed his family’s name, and he never came back looking like this. He had been wounded, he had been exhausted, he had even been furious—but this was different.

It wasn’t rage. It wasn’t exhaustion.

It was like he had stared at something rotten to its core and realized it couldn’t be burned away.

No one asked what happened. No one needed to. The truth was already in the silence stretching between them. Whatever he had seen, whatever he had done, it hadn’t been enough.

That was the part that sat wrong with all of them.

For as long as they had been fighting, there was always something to break. A system, a person, an organization—something that could be dismantled, exposed, destroyed. But this time, even after they had torn apart every foundation, it stood.

Not because it was strong. But because the people at the top didn’t care.

Not for their lives. Not for their reputations. Not for their money.

They looked at him like a child playing.

He exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair before slumping onto the couch. His tie was loose, his sleeves rolled up, a faint smear of blood drying on the edge of his knuckles. He hadn’t bothered cleaning up after leaving.

No one spoke first. They were waiting.

A few feet away, the television played an old broadcast of some financial summit. Generic statements, carefully polished faces talking about global stability like they weren’t the same people gutting entire countries behind closed doors. The volume was low, but even that was enough to be grating.

Nigel clicked it off without a word.

There was a beat of silence before Donald finally sat down across from Nero, leaning back with an arm slung over the chair. “That bad?”

Nero didn’t answer immediately. He let his head fall back against the couch, staring at the ceiling.

“Worse,” he muttered.

No one asked for details.

They already knew.

They had all been in the thick of it—different countries, different faces, but the same disease rotting the world from the inside. Nigel was in London, found the connection between Royals and Island. Maria had been in Moscow, cutting through the filth of an underground psychic program. Donald had torn apart a Silicon Valley experiment trying to turn humans into something they weren’t. Diego had burned a private military base to the ground, watching a warlord’s army scatter like insects. Anthony had dragged captives out of containers, some barely alive, some already too far gone. And Sofia… Sofia had peeled through Geneva’s financial web, finding nothing but rot buried under layers of wealth and polished handshakes.

They had taken it all down. Every piece of it.

And it didn’t matter.

None of it mattered.

Because the ones at the top—Nero’s target, the ones who moved the world with a word, the ones who had been so deeply entrenched in their own sickness that even their destruction wouldn’t be enough—they had just sat there. Watching.

Smirking.

Waiting for the next cycle to start.

Donald shifted, reaching for a bottle on the table. He poured a glass, slid it across to Nero without a word. Nero didn’t take it at first, just staring at it like he wasn’t sure if drinking would make any difference. Then, finally, he picked it up, knocking back half of it in one go.

Diego leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “So what now?”

No one answered.

Because that was the real question, wasn’t it?

What now?

They had done everything. Destroyed every angle, every weak spot.

And the bastards had just laughed.

Sofia stretched out on the couch, staring at the ceiling. “Maybe we should’ve gone old school. Put bullets in their skulls.”

Anthony scoffed, shaking his head. “You think that would’ve changed anything?”

She didn’t answer. Because they all knew it wouldn’t.

Killing them wouldn’t make a difference. That was the worst part.

If they had been afraid, if they had fought, if they had tried to run, it would have meant something. But they hadn’t.

They had just accepted it. Like it didn’t matter.

Like they didn’t matter.

Like nothing mattered.

Nero set the glass down, fingers drumming against the edge. “They weren’t even trying to hide it. They know the world won’t do shit.”

Maria, who had been quiet until now, finally spoke. “People will forget.”

She wasn’t wrong.

It would be loud for a few days. Maybe a week. People would scream, rant, call for justice. Then something else would take over the headlines. A celebrity scandal. A war in some distant country. A new product launch.

And it would all be swept away.

Because the people in charge didn’t just control money or power.

They controlled the narrative.

And if you controlled the narrative, you controlled everything.

Nigel, who had been listening silently, finally exhaled, rubbing his temple. “They’ve been playing this game longer than any of us have been alive. They know how it works.”

Sofia made a noise in the back of her throat. “And we just made them double down.”

That was the part that sickened them the most.

They hadn’t just exposed them.

They had forced them to adapt.

Nero closed his eyes briefly, pressing his fingers against his temple.

The weight of it wasn’t something he had expected. Not like this.

He had thought there would be some reaction. Even if it was just anger.

But there was nothing.

And that nothing was worse than any resistance they could have given.

It meant they had already accounted for everything.

He opened his eyes again, looking at the people who had fought alongside him through everything.

They weren’t broken. They weren’t defeated.

But for the first time in a long time, they didn’t know what came next.

Taking a deep breath, Nero said, "Muskrat said that body was just a clone. Even if I destroyed all of them, so what? I’m not even sure if any of the faces we see on TV—the royals, the politicians—are real or not anymore."

No one spoke.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, rolling the empty glass between his fingers. It was absurd, wasn’t it? How deep it went. He had thought power meant something real, that no matter how much influence someone had, their physical body, their wealth, their connections—they were still human. But these people had moved past even that. They didn’t fear death, not because they were brave, not because they had resigned themselves to the consequences. They simply… didn’t care. Because what did it matter if the body sitting in the room got destroyed when the real one was somewhere else? Or when there was no real one at all?

"Clones," Sofia muttered, rubbing a hand over her face. "Or body doubles. Or tech. Fuck, we don’t even know if some of them are walking around with their actual brains in their skulls."

Nigel didn’t look surprised. He had been in London, picking through the connections between the royals and the island, and nothing about what Nero said contradicted what he had seen. If anything, it confirmed it.

There had been no fear in that room. No anger, no panic, no scrambling for escape routes or damage control. It wasn’t that they had accepted defeat. It was that, to them, there was no defeat.

Even if they lost everything, they wouldn’t actually lose anything. Their money would move before any system could seize it. Their names would disappear from records before any trial could touch them. Their deaths would mean nothing, because they had never lived in the same world as everyone else to begin with.

And they knew it.

"I thought if we cut off everything, all their supply lines, all their resources, if we forced them to lose their power, something would change," Nero said. "They just laughed."

A bitter sound left Sofia’s throat. "Of course they did."

She had seen it too. Geneva’s banks weren’t just a financial web; they were the nervous system of every corrupt deal that ever took place. She had pulled at every thread, uncovered every account, laid out every transaction in the open. And for what? The people at the top didn’t need to cover their tracks. They didn’t need to pretend. They could fund human trafficking, warlords, psychics experiments, and it wouldn’t matter. Because by the time the outrage started, they would already be somewhere else, under a new name, with a new story.

Maria rubbed her temple. "They don’t need money, they don’t need status, they don’t even need public support. We were fighting a system, but they’re not part of the system. They are the system."

A pause.

Donald exhaled through his nose, tapping a finger against the armrest. "So what are we supposed to do? Just let them keep going?"

No one answered.

Diego, who had been quiet, finally let out a low chuckle, but there was no humor in it. "If they aren’t scared of losing, then they’re only scared of one thing."

Nero leaned back, tipping his head against the couch. "That’s the problem. There is nothing left to take from them. If they don’t need their bodies, their money, their reputations, if they’ve reached the point where existence itself is just another shell to crawl out of and into, what’s left?"

Silence.

Because that was the part none of them had an answer for.

They had always fought knowing there was something to break. A person, a foundation, an empire—something that could be shattered, something that could be burned. But what did you do when your enemy had already made themselves untouchable?

It wasn’t invincibility. It was worse. It was the complete absence of consequence.

Maria sat on Nero’s lap, holding his face between her hands, pressing her forehead to his. "You’ll find their breaking point. You’ll figure out how to make them pay. You always do."

Nero exhaled, burying his head against her shoulder. "Yeah."

No one spoke for a few seconds. The weight of what they had seen, what they had torn apart, what had refused to break—it sat between them.

Donald leaned forward, balancing his glass on his knee. "If their bodies don’t matter, then we’re not fighting people anymore. We’re fighting something else."

"Something else with bank accounts and government seats," Nigel muttered.

"Clones are the obvious answer," Sofia said. "Body doubles at the very least. But clones that can function that well? Fully aware, fully in control? That’s beyond what we’ve seen before."

Donald shook his head. "Nah, that tech is still flawed. Even the most advanced genetic engineering struggles with memory transfer, and I don’t buy that these bastards would risk degraded copies of themselves. They act like they can just swap out and keep going, which means we’re looking at something beyond just a replacement body."

Maria shifted, pulling back slightly from Nero but not moving away. "Tech? We know companies have been working on mind uploads, digital consciousness, whatever bullshit they’re calling it this week."

Anthony exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "It’d explain why they weren’t scared. If you’ve got a backup somewhere, why panic? Just let the clone die, reboot in another body, move on."

Nero tapped his fingers against Maria’s thigh. "I’d believe it if they were desperate to live. But they weren’t. They weren’t even irritated. It wasn’t ‘Oh no, my backup plan will save me.’ It was ‘This doesn’t matter at all.’"

Diego snorted. "So either they’re so deep in the god complex they think death is just a suggestion, or they’ve figured out how to make it true."

Sofia clicked her tongue. "Alright, let’s run through the options. Cloning tech on that level isn’t common. The best we’ve seen requires insane resources, and the few projects I’ve looked into are nowhere near market-ready. If they had something like that, we would’ve seen traces of it somewhere—leaks, failed experiments, dead test subjects. Someone, somewhere, would’ve tried selling a piece of it."

Nigel tilted his head. "Unless it’s not from this world."

A beat of silence.

Donald sighed. "Don’t say it."

Nero raised an eyebrow. "Why not? It’s a real possibility. The amount of alien shit sitting in vaults across the planet? You really think no one’s been playing with it?"

Sofia pointed at him. "See, that’s fair. Kree, Skrull, Shi’ar—if any of them had a technology that let them swap bodies or store consciousness, and if the right people got their hands on it…"

Nigel nodded. "Then we’re looking at more than just human greed. We’re looking at stolen tech being used in a way even the original species might not have intended."

Diego shrugged. "Or they bought it."

"From who?" Donald frowned. "You don’t just roll up to a space marketplace and ask for the ‘never die’ package."

Nero clicked his tongue. "That we know of."

Anthony leaned forward. "Then there’s magic."

More silence.

Donald groaned, running a hand down his face. "I hate that we have to consider that."

Maria smirked. "But we do."

Nero flexed his fingers. "Soul transfer, reincarnation loops, stored essence. If any group could get their hands on something like that, it’d be the ones who already own everything else."

"Question is," Nigel said, "who do we know that can pull that off?"

A few names came up immediately.

"Sorcerers," Sofia said, drumming her fingers against the table. "But Kamar-Taj doesn’t deal in that kind of immortality. They preserve, protect. Even the ones who go rogue don’t usually sell their knowledge."

"The Hand?" Maria suggested.

Nigel shook his head. "Resurrection, sure. But that process still has consequences. And it’s messy. It wouldn’t explain the kind of confidence those bastards had. They weren’t worried about being resurrected. They acted like they never truly died in the first place."

Nero shook his head. "Arnim Zola, The Jackal, Mister Sinister, High Evolutionary, Dr. Karl Malus, MODOK & AIM, Doctor Doom, The Maker. All of these are possible suspects. I haven't heard anything about them so far, but they might be in collusion with those bastards. I encountered Richards, and in this reality, he is not evil, so I doubt The Maker exists, but it’s best not to rule out any option."

A short pause. Then—

“The fuck kind of names are those?” Sofia frowned. “MODOK? What is that, an acronym for ‘Moron in a Dumbass Outfit Kicking it’?”

"Close," Nero said.

Donald rubbed his temple. "Okay, I recognize Zola, but you're just throwing out shit like I’m supposed to know who the hell The High Evolutionary is."

"Yeah," Diego leaned forward. "And what’s with the whole ‘Maker’ thing? Sounds like some cult leader bullshit."

Maria pulled Nero’s sleeve. “Are they the kind of people who build machines that swallow stars or the kind that just... ruin things on a smaller scale?”

"Bit of both," Nero said. "Zola’s a Nazi brain uploaded into a computer, Malus does unethical biological enhancements, The Jackal’s got a cloning fetish, Mister Sinister’s even worse, High Evolutionary plays God with genetics, MODOK’s a floating head with a god complex, Doom’s... Doom, and The Maker is Reed Richards if he took a left turn straight into madness.”

Nigel, who had been listening, looked unimpressed. “And none of them showed up while we were dismantling everything?”

"Not directly," Nero said. "But the thing is, if any of them have even a toe dipped in this pool, it changes the game. We’re not just looking at rich sociopaths fucking around with power anymore—we’re looking at people who are so deep into science and tech that concepts like ‘human’ and ‘death’ stop meaning anything to them."

Donald exhaled. “Okay, so best-case scenario, they’re not involved, and we’re still fighting untouchable pricks who can apparently reincarnate themselves into new bodies. Worst case, we’ve got a collection of the worst biological and technological nightmares backing them.”

“Neat,” Diego said, deadpan. “Love that for us.”

Anthony leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “If they’re involved, do we even have a way to track them?”

"Depends," Nero said. "Most of them are paranoid as fuck. They don’t work together unless there’s a damn good reason. But if even one of them is mixed up in this, they’ll have left fingerprints. Some experiment, some failed prototype, some anomaly that doesn’t fit the usual billionaire crime ring bullshit."

Sofia’s eyes flickered with thought. “Geneva’s records were deep, but if someone was laundering high-level research funding, it’d be under different subsidiaries. I can go back through the data, look for anything tied to biotech, cybernetics, or cloning facilities.”

"Good. Do that." Nero tapped the side of his glass. “But don't just check for the usual suspects. Check for anything that suddenly vanished. Projects that were scrapped, facilities that ‘burned down’ mysteriously, researchers that disappeared.”

Maria hummed. "Because if they’ve figured out a way to cheat death permanently, they’d be careful about it."

"Bingo," Nero said.

Donald clicked his tongue. “Alright, so let’s say we do find out one of these guys is backing them. What then?”

"We pull them apart, piece by piece," Anthony said simply.

"That easy, huh?" Diego smirked. "You ever tried pulling apart a floating head scientist with laser eyes? Because I feel like that’s not a one-and-done kind of fight."

Anthony rolled his eyes. "We’ve dealt with worse."

"But not this kind of worse," Nigel said. "This isn't just a powerful enemy, this is an enemy that fundamentally does not play by our rules. If they’re using clones, or worse, storing their consciousness somewhere, they’re not just hiding behind power. They’ve made themselves untouchable. Even if we find them, killing them won’t do shit."

"So we don’t kill them," Maria said. "We erase them."

Sofia snapped her fingers. "Mind-wiping tech. Neural scrambling. Force a reset they can’t recover from."

Nero clenched his fist. "No. Erasing is merciful. I’ll give them the eternal life they want. An eternal nightmare."

Nero's phone rang, opening three texts he just received, he couldn't help but smile.

----------------

The island was quiet, isolated, the kind of place that didn’t exist on maps. The Cabal had gathered, their faces well-known to those who understood power. They weren’t just rich or influential; they were the minds that shaped history from behind closed doors. Nations had fallen at their command. Wars had started and ended without their names ever being spoken.

Tonight, they were meeting someone new.

The table was long, polished, set under dim lights that kept the edges of the room in shadow. The men and women sitting there weren’t politicians, weren’t CEOs—not in the way the world understood them. They had moved beyond such titles. This was The Cabal, and their influence stretched across every system that mattered.

At the far end of the table, a seat had been left open. A formality. A test.

Kira entered, walking casually. He took the seat offered, resting an arm against the table as if he’d been here before. Looked at the faces he knew too well.

Doctor Doom. The Maker. Norman Osborn. Magneto. Apocalypse. Emma Frost.

This was the Cabal.

No introductions were needed. They weren’t here to make friends, and Kira wasn’t here to prove himself. The seat left open for him was a formality, nothing more. If they didn’t think he belonged, he wouldn’t have made it this far.

The silence stretched for a moment. Then, The Maker leaned back, his long fingers tapping against the table. "So, this is the new devil of Hell’s Kitchen."

Osborn scoffed, swirling the drink in his hand. "More like the brat who got lucky." His gaze flicked toward Kira, disdain barely hidden. "You should’ve let Fisk handle that mess. You cost me good business."

Kira didn’t look at him. "If you were stupid enough to rely on Fisk, that’s on you."

Osborn’s grip on the glass tightened.

Apocalypse chuckled, the sound deep and amused. "And yet, here he is. Among us."

Emma, sitting across from Kira, ran a finger along the rim of her glass. "For now."

Doom, silent until now, finally spoke. "Enough. Osborn, explain."

Norman clenched his jaw but nodded. He wasn’t Doom, wasn’t Magneto, wasn’t Apocalypse. He was the weakest at the table, and he knew it. His seat was a courtesy, a nod to his position in New York’s underworld, nothing more. That didn’t mean he liked it.

Osborn exhaled sharply, gripping the glass in his hand like it was the only thing stopping him from launching himself across the table. "We are the ones who decide the course of the world. When we shift, nations fall. When we rise, civilizations thrive—under our terms. Governments, economies, wars, progress… all of it is shaped here, whether the sheep outside realize it or not." He leaned back, sneering slightly. "And we don’t entertain reckless variables."

Kira didn’t react. He let the words settle, like he wasn’t even listening.

Doom shifted slightly, more interested in efficiency than Osborn’s frustration. "We do not waste time with theatrics. You would not be here if you did not understand what this entails."

"Then why talk in circles?" Kira said simply.

Apocalypse chuckled, low and amused. "Because those without vision often mistake power for purpose. You understand power, but purpose… that is the question."

Magneto tilted his head slightly, observing rather than participating. His presence alone was enough weight.

Emma tapped her nails against her glass. "We operate on a foundation of control, of knowledge. It’s not about strength alone—many have strength. It’s about knowing where to apply it. We don’t ask for loyalty, but we demand intelligence. The world doesn’t belong to those who fight blindly."

Kira rested his chin on his hand. "And yet you brought Osborn along."

Osborn moved before he could stop himself, the chair scraping against the floor as he started to rise.

"Enough." Doom didn’t raise his voice, but it carried.

Osborn gritted his teeth, but he sat back down.

Kira exhaled. "You want to know my purpose? Simple. I want Hell’s Kitchen to be mine, and I want to see how far I can push the limits of what’s possible. Fisk got complacent. Thought he had built something untouchable. He forgot that power isn’t about stability. It’s about momentum." He met Doom’s gaze. "You lot know that better than anyone. The second you stop moving, you start falling."

Doom considered that for a moment.

The Maker, who had been silent so far, finally spoke. "And yet, you still play within the framework. You didn’t tear the city apart. You took the throne." His lips curled slightly, something between amusement and curiosity. "That suggests either you have greater ambitions or you are still shackled by the need for order."

Kira glanced at him. "The framework exists whether I acknowledge it or not. Burning everything down doesn’t mean you own the ashes. It means you have nothing."

Apocalypse let out a short breath that might have been approval. "Survival of the strongest is not merely about destruction. It is about adaptation."

Kira stretched slightly, like the conversation was mildly entertaining but nothing more. "So? Are we done with the lesson, or is there another monologue about power I have to sit through?"

Emma smirked. "He has a point. If he wasn’t meant to be here, he wouldn’t be."

Doom inclined his head slightly. "Then let us move forward."

Osborn clicked his tongue, clearly irritated but knowing he was outvoted.

The Maker laced his fingers together. "The next step is simple. Your control over Hell’s Kitchen remains. We do not interfere unless necessary. In return, when the time comes, you do not interfere in our affairs."

Kira hummed. "And what happens if our affairs cross paths?"

Magneto nodded. "As in New York, I stood against Loki and his invasion, while Osborn allied with them. If we fight, the Cabal stays out of it. So long as it doesn’t harm our collective interest. Though my stance—and yours too—is clear. This world is ours. Anyone colluding with extraterrestrials will perish."

Osborn scoffed. "Spare me the posturing, Erik. I did what was necessary to ensure my position. Unlike you, I don’t have the luxury of some grand ideological shield to hide behind." He turned to Kira. "I expected the Crazy Devil to do whatever was necessary, but clearly, you’re sentimental about your race too. If The Other and Loki had won, we could’ve rid ourselves of heroes, SHIELD, and those damned Seven Masked Vigilantes!"

Kira exhaled through his nose, unimpressed. "And then what? You think Loki would’ve just handed you New York on a silver platter?"

Osborn leaned forward, sneering. "I would’ve carved my own piece."

"You?" Kira let the word hang, the disbelief so casual it stung.

Osborn’s fingers curled against the table.

The Maker tilted his head. "It’s not an unreasonable conclusion. If the invasion had succeeded, the power vacuum would’ve been significant. Consolidation would have been difficult, but possible."

"You’re assuming Loki would’ve left a throne behind." Kira’s voice was flat. "He wouldn’t have. You’d have traded SHIELD for a different master."

Magneto nodded slightly. "The difference is that Osborn prefers chains he thinks he can hold."

Osborn’s jaw tensed, but he didn’t argue.

Doom spoke, cutting through the tension. "Irrelevant. The invasion failed. Kira’s role in that failure is noted, but we do not linger on what cannot be changed. We discuss what comes next."

Apocalypse tapped a finger against the table. "Then let us ask the real question—does he belong?"

Emma swirled the wine in her glass. "He’s here, isn’t he?"

"That is not the same," Apocalypse said. "There is a difference between presence and acceptance. We are not a collection of opportunists, here today, gone tomorrow. We shape the world." His gaze settled on Kira. "And I would know if you are merely a man with ambition or something greater."

Kira held his gaze without reaction. "You already know the answer to that."

Apocalypse studied him for a moment longer before giving the smallest nod.

The Maker laced his fingers together. "So, then. The foundation is set. The terms are clear. You rule Hell’s Kitchen without interference, and you do not interfere with us unless necessary."

Kira tilted his head slightly. "And if I decide that what’s necessary is on a broader scale?"

Magneto smirked. "Then we will have an interesting discussion when the time comes."

Osborn clicked his tongue. "If it were up to me, you wouldn’t even be here."

"But it’s not up to you," Kira said.

Osborn’s lip curled, but Doom ignored him. "This meeting is concluded. We have what we need."

Emma stretched, standing gracefully. "Well. That was fun."

Apocalypse stood next, his presence towering. "Do not disappoint us, Kira. Or do. It will be entertaining either way."

Osborn was the last to rise, shaking his head as he turned to leave. "Fisk should have gutted you when he had the chance."

Kira leaned back in his chair. "He never stood a chance."

-----------

At the same time, in an underground room outside of New York, the Illuminati were gathered. The usual members were seated—Reed Richards, Professor X, Namor, Black Bolt, Hank Pym—while two new faces sat across from them. Lawliet and Erwin.

From the outside, Lawliet was a private investigator with an unnatural ability to find the truth, and Erwin was a high-ranking SHIELD agent, an exceptional strategist with a reputation for seeing the bigger picture. Childhood friends, brought in to contribute their insight. That was the story.

The reality? No one at this table—not even Reed—would get the real truth.

The air in the room was steady, measured. No theatrics, no posturing. Everyone here understood the weight of their discussions.

Reed leaned forward slightly, fingers steepled. “We appreciate your discretion in coming here." He turned his attention to Lawliet and Erwin. "We would like to introduce ourselves and our organization."

Lawliet cut him off. "The Illuminati. A secret council of the most powerful individuals on Earth, founded to safeguard humanity against threats too great for individual factions to handle. Each of you represents a key pillar—science, diplomacy, strategy, mysticism, leadership. You operate outside governments, outside oversight, believing your judgment is superior to any system that currently exists. Decisions made in this room have shaped the world in ways most will never know."

Silence.

Namor’s eyes narrowed. "How do you know that?"

Lawliet shrugged. "It wasn’t hard to figure out. Charles invited us, which means this meeting isn’t public knowledge. That already rules out any official capacity. Then there’s the way you all reacted when we entered—comfortable, but not casual. This isn’t the first time you’ve done this, but it’s also not common enough to be routine. The seating arrangement tells me who holds more influence—Reed, you’re the one who speaks first, but you’re not the final authority. That would be Charles and Black Bolt, considering their positioning. The fact that we were invited means you’re either recruiting or gathering perspectives you don’t already have." He gestured lazily at the group. "Which means this isn’t just some consultation. You’re trying to decide something big, and you don’t want to risk your usual channels."

Reed didn’t respond immediately.

Hank Pym frowned. "That’s a lot of assumptions."

"Are they wrong?"

Charles exhaled, barely a movement. "No."

Namor leaned back slightly, watching Lawliet with a mixture of suspicion and interest. "And how exactly did you connect all of that?"

Lawliet licked his thumb, brushing off the edge of his sleeve. "A little information here, a little common sense there. Erwin and I were childhood friends, but that alone wouldn’t get us into this room. He’s a high-ranking SHIELD agent, which means he has the clearance, but I’m a private investigator. That doesn’t justify my presence unless I bring something unique to the table. Which means you already know I do. That alone told me everything I needed to know about how you operate."

Reed studied him. "And what is it you bring to the table?"

Lawliet tilted his head slightly. "Perspective. You’re all too used to looking at things from the top down. That makes you efficient, but also predictable. If I could figure out the basics of this meeting in a few seconds, imagine what someone truly dangerous could do."

Erwin, who had been silent, finally spoke. "That’s why you invited us. You need a different way of seeing things."

Charles nodded. "The problem we face requires more than power or knowledge. It requires understanding, and neither of you think like the rest of us. That is valuable."

Namor crossed his arms. "And what exactly are we discussing that requires their presence?"

Reed glanced at Charles, then back at the table. "The Cabal has formed again."

That got a reaction.

Erwin didn’t blink. "Who?"

"Confirmed members include Doom, Magneto, The Maker, Osborn, Apocalypse, and Emma Frost," Charles said.

Lawliet let out a low hum. "That’s a dangerous mix."

Hank Pym scoffed. "That’s an understatement."

Namor’s expression darkened. "And who is this Kira?"

Erwin’s fingers tapped against the table. "Officially? The new Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. Unofficially? He’s already sitting at their table."

That got more of a reaction.

Reed sighed. "We don’t know what his long-term play is. But we do know this—he’s dangerous, and he doesn’t operate under normal principles. If he’s aligning with the Cabal, we need to understand why."

Lawliet nodded slightly. "If you’re asking whether he’s a threat, the answer is yes. But you already knew that. The real question is whether he’s a threat to you or to them."

Charles folded his hands together. "Precisely."

Black Bolt, silent as ever, watched the discussion without comment.

Erwin leaned forward slightly. "You want to predict his moves."

"More than that," Reed said. "We need to know what his endgame is. We’ve dealt with megalomaniacs before. We’ve dealt with warlords, with tyrants, with beings that see themselves as gods. But Kira doesn’t fit neatly into any of those categories. He took over Hell’s Kitchen, but he didn’t expand recklessly. He dismantled Fisk, but he didn’t replace him with chaos. He’s building something, but we don’t know what."

Namor frowned. "And you think these two can answer that?"

Lawliet smiled slightly. "We can try."

Hank Pym tapped a finger against the table. "Let’s start simple, then. If you were Kira, what would you do?"

Lawliet didn’t hesitate. "I’d use the Cabal until they were no longer useful. Then I’d break them."

Another silence.

Reed exhaled. "You say that so casually."

"Because it’s obvious," Lawliet said. "Look at his history. He doesn’t share power. He consolidates it. Hell’s Kitchen isn’t just territory to him—it’s a foundation. He didn’t take it to rule a crime empire. He took it because it was a test. To see how far he could go."

Namor’s fingers curled against the table. "So he’s ambitious."

"He’s ambitious and patient," Erwin corrected. "That’s what makes him dangerous. If he wanted chaos, he would’ve burned New York to the ground already. But he didn’t. He built something stable. Which means he’s planning something bigger."

Charles’ expression remained neutral. "And the Cabal?"

Lawliet leaned back. "They think they’re using him. He thinks he’s using them. The only question is who wins that game first."

Hank Pym scoffed. "And if it’s him?"

Lawliet’s smile didn’t change. "Then we’ll be having a very different conversation."

Reed steepled his fingers again. "Then our job is to ensure that conversation never happens."

Erwin glanced at Lawliet. "Do we get full access to the data?"

Charles nodded. "As much as we can share."

Namor exhaled. "Then let’s begin."

Erwin nodded. "And why did you invite me? You already have Lawliet for finding weaknesses. I assume my presence means you need something different."

Reed folded his hands. "Your ability to create solutions from limited resources. When we plan, we deal with what is within our control—technology, alliances, projected outcomes. You have a reputation for working with far less and achieving more."

Namor scoffed. "A diplomat’s way of saying you turn scraps into victories."

Erwin didn’t argue. "So, you need someone who can make sense of an unpredictable battlefield."

"Correct," Charles said. "You and Lawliet are not here because of what you know. You’re here because of how you think."

---

Nero checked the three text messages he received from L, Kira, and Erwin. All three said the same thing: "I am in."