The lobby of the St. Regis did not usually resemble a private auction for illicit miracles, yet that was exactly what it had become.
Men in tailored suits stood in a long, disciplined queue that stretched from the reception desk to the entrance. Most of them held briefcases with a level of care that suggested the contents mattered more than their own comfort. A few spoke in low voices. Most remained silent, watching the lift doors as if they expected salvation to step out of them.
Security had adapted rather than intervened. Hotel guards stood at the edges of the gathering, alert but deliberately uninvolved. Private bodyguards filled the gaps. Several of them carried themselves with the kind of posture that did not bother hiding a weapon. One man had a shoulder holster that might as well have been a fashion choice.
Natasha and Clint stepped into that environment without breaking stride.
Clint's gaze swept the room once and catalogued everything that mattered. Entry points. Exit routes. Visible weapons. Hidden weapons. The ratio of professionals to amateurs. It was neither hostile nor harmless.
Natasha moved toward the reception with the ease of someone who expected doors to open when she reached them.
The receptionist recognised her approach and straightened slightly.
"Good morning," Natasha said, placing both hands lightly on the desk. "Inform Mr Noctis that we are here to see him, please."
The receptionist held her expression with effort, then gestured toward the line behind them.
"Madam, Mr Noctis is currently receiving visitors through a managed list. His butler is registering names in order of arrival. You can approach him."
Natasha glanced over her shoulder.
The queue was not casual. It was structured. The men were not waiting for a chance. They were waiting for access.
Before she could press further, Clint stepped in.
"Appreciate it," he said with an easy tone, then nudged Natasha lightly away from the desk.
They approached the line.
The closer they got, the clearer the pattern became. Each visitor carried cash or something equivalent. Each one had a purpose. There were no tourists here.
Clint leaned slightly toward Natasha.
"It seems demand hasn't dropped. We just walked into a very expensive black market."
Natasha's eyes moved across the briefcases.
"Not a market," she replied quietly. "A supply line."
They reached the front where a man in a butler's uniform stood with a small leather-bound notebook. His posture was perfect, his expression neutral, and his pen moved with quiet efficiency.
Clint glanced at the page as the man wrote.
Each entry had a number, a name, and a notation beside it.
65 - LHP x5 and LSP x10.
The pattern repeated.
Clint's jaw shifted slightly.
They were not guessing anymore.
When their turn came, the butler looked up.
"Name," he prompted.
Natasha did not hesitate.
"SHIELD."
The pen stopped.
The butler studied her for a second, then drew a firm line through the 66 he had begun to assign.
"Madam," he said with polite finality, "your organisation is not welcome. Mr Noctis will not be seeing you."
Clint leaned in slightly, keeping his voice calm.
"We're not here for business. We just need a conversation."
The butler reached into his inner pocket, unfolded a piece of paper, and handed it to Clint.
Clint opened it.
The handwriting was sharp and deliberate.
"To SHIELD,
You forced entry once, took what was mine, and called it procedure. If you are here again, then the lesson clearly did not take. I am not interested in meetings, negotiations, or apologies. You will leave, and stay gone. Try again, and I will assume you are asking for a repeat.
Consider this your only warning."
Clint read it twice, then folded it carefully.
Natasha watched his expression, then took the paper and read it herself.
Her face did not change, but her eyes hardened slightly.
"Such a kind person," Clint said.
"Tell me we at least returned his car," Natasha muttered.
The butler had already turned to the next person in line.
They stepped aside.
Clint exhaled slowly.
"Well, that went well."
Natasha's gaze lifted toward the upper floors of the hotel.
Natasha folded the note once more and slipped it into her pocket.
"We still talk to him," she said.
Clint raised an eyebrow.
"He just told us not to."
She looked back at the lift.
"That was for SHIELD. Not for us." She returned to the reception with a charming smile.
--
Far away from Manhattan, in a cave that smelled of oil, metal, and exhaustion, Tony Stark adjusted a piece of scrap plating and held it in place while Yinsen secured it.
The arc reactor in his chest hummed quietly, a reminder that survival and imprisonment had become the same condition.
Nearly a month had passed.
Time had lost its structure. Days blurred into work cycles. Sleep came when his body forced it. Food arrived when his captors remembered he needed it alive.
He glanced at the crude assembly forming around him.
"Remind me again," he said, shifting the weight slightly, "how they think I can build a Jericho in a cave with tools that would embarrass a high school workshop?"
Yinsen did not look up.
"They wouldn't be terrorists if they were smart," he replied calmly.
Tony allowed himself a thin smile.
He tightened a bolt and leaned back for a moment.
His mind drifted to the vials.
The yellow and red solutions had saved his life. Without them, the initial damage would have taken him before the cave ever became a problem.
He exhaled slowly.
"I really should have bought more of those," he muttered.
Yinsen glanced at him briefly.
"More of what?"
"If I ever get out of here, I'll get you a crate," Tony replied, already returning to the suit.
Footsteps echoed from the entrance.
Raza appeared, his expression already impatient.
Tony did not look up immediately.
That alone annoyed the man.
"You are behind," Raza stated.
Tony picked up a tool and adjusted a panel.
"I am innovating under pressure," he replied. "There's a difference."
Raza stepped closer.
"I want results."
Tony finally looked at him, then back to the panel in his hands as if the metal deserved more attention.
"You'll get them," he said, tone even. "But not on your timetable. These tools are crude, the power is unstable, and half the materials are wrong. If you want something that works, you give me time."
Raza frowned, irritation holding but not yet turning to action.
Tony tightened a bolt and adjusted the alignment by a fraction.
"I'm not wasting your resources on something that fails the first time it's powered," he added, without looking up. "You want results, then let me do it properly"
Raza watched him for a moment longer, then stepped back, still dissatisfied.
Tony kept working, buying himself a little more time.
-
Back in New York, Clint stepped away from the lobby and pulled out his phone.
Fury answered on the first ring.
"Director," Clint began, keeping his voice even. "Noctis has blacklisted SHIELD. He refuses to meet."
A sharp exhale came through the line, followed by the start of a response that turned into a string of profanity.
The call ended abruptly.
Clint lowered the phone and looked at Natasha.
"I didn't get to the important part," he said.
She tilted her head slightly.
"The note."
Clint nodded.
He typed quickly and sent the message.
At the Triskelion, Fury's phone lay in pieces against the wall, the result of a decision made half a second after the call ended.
-
In the Royal Suite, several floors above the carefully managed queue, Lucius finished his breakfast and took his last sip of tea.
He held the cup loosely in one hand while his attention moved through the hotel, across the lobby, and along the waiting line.
He felt the minds below as a collection of small, distinct signals: greed, hope, desperation, and calculation, all of it neatly arranged and waiting for his potions.
He found two different signatures near the entrance.
Black Widow and Hawkeye.
He smiled. He did not have any grudge against them. Not like Hill and Fury. Still, he did not expect them to stay, and from the plans of the red-headed widow, they were going to enjoy the luxury of the hotel for a while.
The note had been clear. The message had been polite, by his standards.
They still insisted.
Lucius leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes for a moment.
He considered letting them up.
Then he considered the alternative.
The alternative was more entertaining.
"Hide and seek," he murmured.
"Hawkeye was a good man." He liked the man in the movies and always wondered why they did not give him any supernatural powers. As for Natasha, she was enhanced with the Russian version of the super soldier serum in the comics, not in the movies, though. In his view, her 'enhancements' were mostly attitude, flexibility, and an irritating habit of always landing on her feet. Oh, and her cleavage and butt, of course.
He stood up and called the reception to arrange an office for the meetings.
"Let them enjoy their stay.