78: Chapter 78 Clash with Fury

"It all depends on how much you are willing to pay for the information of a gravedigger."

After Yan Zheng had turned this sentence over in his mind for two days, Fury set a price on its value with a single text message.

August 11th, 12:00 PM.

Burns had sent the new address the night before—not the Antique Shop, not one of the interrogation rooms at S.H.I.E.L.D., but a Chinese restaurant called "Fu Man Lou" on Main Street in Flushing, a private room on the third floor.

Yan Zheng raised an eyebrow when he saw the address.

"Mr. Fury refuses to come to my home turf and wants to drag me to a place of his choosing to talk."

"A Chinese restaurant, crowded and noisy, with waiters coming and going; it looks very casual."

"But precisely because it is casual, anyone walking in or out won't attract attention."

"His choice of location is top-notch; I can't find any fault with it."

He pulled up the two words "He's coming" from Burns's reply to look at them again, then locked his phone, took the pre-loaded USB drive out of the drawer, and weighed it in his palm.

"Fine, I'll follow the host's lead."

At 12:15 PM, Yan Zheng pushed open the door to the private room on the third floor of Fu Man Lou.

The room was small; a mahogany round table for eight occupied most of the space. On the table were standard Chinese tableware and a pot of Tieguanyin, with thin wisps of hot steam rising from the spout.

A man sat across the round table.

He wore a black leather coat, was bald, and had a black eyepatch over his left eye. His right pupil was dark brown, looking as if it contained a scanner that never turned off.

Nick Fury.

Standing to his right was a woman with short hair, wearing a dark blue uniform. Her posture was upright with her hands behind her back, and her gaze showed no superfluous change in expression as it swept over Yan Zheng.

Hill.

Fury did not stand up; he simply used his one good eye to look from Yan Zheng's leather shoes up to his hair, at a pace that was neither fast nor slow, like a customs officer flipping through a passport.

"Mr. Yan, sit."

Yan Zheng walked to the chair opposite Fury, pulled it out, and smoothed the hem of his suit before sitting down.

"Mr. Fury, sorry to bother you."

Once seated, his first action wasn't to speak, but to flip over the teacup in front of him and pick up the teapot to pour himself a cup.

Then, he picked up the teapot again, aimed the spout at the empty cup in front of Fury, and raised his eyes.

"Would you like some?"

"I don't drink tea poured by others."

Fury's voice carried a roughness as if polished by sandpaper, but his enunciation was crisp and clean, like flicking playing cards.

"A habit."

"Understood."

Yan Zheng placed the teapot back on the table, picked up his own cup, blew on the hot steam, and took a small sip.

The taste of the Tieguanyin was average; the tea grade was probably from the middle shelf of a supermarket—neither good nor bad.

"Mr. Yan."

Fury's hands were crossed and resting on the tabletop, his right eye fixed steadily on the lenses of Yan Zheng's gold-rimmed glasses.

"I don't like beating around the bush."

"Neither do I."

"Good."

Fury leaned forward slightly by two inches.

"I've seen many kinds of people who think they can change the World—some wearing tin cans, some on green hormones, and some dug out of the ice."

"Which one are you?"

Yan Zheng set down the teacup, placed his hands on the edge of the table, and naturally crossed his ten fingers, his posture resembling someone attending an academic seminar.

"Mr. Fury, you overestimate me."

"I don't change the World; I'm just an antique dealer who collects precious items."

"How the World changes is a matter for people like you to worry about."

"I just pick up things others don't want when the World changes."

Fury stared at him with his one eye for five seconds.

During those five seconds, Hill, standing to Fury's right, swept her gaze toward the door, then toward the window, and finally back to Yan Zheng, without making a sound the entire time.

"You are very interesting, Mr. Yan."

Fury leaned his body back against the chair and tapped the table with his right index finger.

"Picking up things others don't want."

"The thirty-seven people in The Hand's West 45th Street stronghold—are they things others don't want?"

"Thirty-seven lives, evaporated overnight, without even leaving a bone fragment behind."

"You call this picking up junk?"

Yan Zheng picked up the teacup and took another sip, the pace half a beat slower than before, as if savoring the aftertaste of the tea.

"Mr. Fury, your phrasing is very vivid."

"However, I would like to correct a small detail."

"The things those people were doing—kidnapping Mutants, live experimentation, Dark Energy rituals—if placed in your classification system, the threat level shouldn't be low, right?"

"They are gone; for the public security of New York, is that subtraction or addition?"

Fury's finger paused for a beat.

"Are you trying to justify your actions?"

"I am helping you save on administrative expenses, Mr. Fury."

Yan Zheng's smile was as gentle as a pot of tea at the perfect temperature.

"For your Agents to handle a stronghold of The Hand, it would require at least two tactical squads, a three-day reconnaissance period, an approval process, and post-operation site cleanup and media control."

"I finished it in one night—no casualty reports, no media exposure, no budget overruns."

"Free of charge."

Fury didn't smile, but the scanner in his one eye seemed to adjust its focus.

"The most expensive things are the ones that are free, Mr. Yan."

"That is why I came today."

Yan Zheng took the USB drive from his inner suit pocket, held it between his thumb and index finger, placed it on the table, and gently pushed it three inches toward Fury with his fingertips.

"This is my sincerity."

Fury looked down at the USB drive but did not reach for it.

He shifted his gaze to Hill on his right and nodded.

Hill stepped forward, picked up the USB drive from the table, walked to an inconspicuous corner of the room, pulled a handheld terminal from her uniform's inner pocket, and inserted the USB drive.

Data began to scroll on the screen.

Yan Zheng watched Hill's back as she operated the device and picked up his teacup again.

"Inside is basic intelligence on an organization called E.S.S., short for Evolutionary Sample Services."

"They have at least two outposts in New York, one in Brooklyn Red Hook and one in Paterson, New Jersey."

"The business they do overlaps with The Hand, but it is larger and more systematic."

"They specialize in hunting Mutants, extracting biological samples, and supplying them upstream."

Fury did not look at the terminal in Hill's hand; his one eye remained fixed on Yan Zheng's face.

"How did you get this intelligence?"

"Asking an antique dealer about their sourcing channels is not very polite, Mr. Fury."

Fury stared at him for three seconds, then reached out to pick up the teapot on the table and poured himself a cup.

Yan Zheng noticed this action.

He said earlier that he wouldn't drink tea poured by others, but now he was pouring it himself.

This was Fury's way—he wouldn't accept others' kindness, but he could take it himself.

"Continue."

Fury took a sip of tea, his tone carrying a hint of relaxation that was hard to discern.

"E.S.S. is just the first gift I brought."

Yan Zheng extended a second finger.

"The second name: MSR."

Fury's teacup paused at his lips.

"Three days ago, in the abandoned industrial zone of Hunts Point in the southern Bronx, a six-man tactical team, wearing uniform dark blue tactical armor, semi-enclosed helmets, professional electric nets, and an armored transport vehicle, packed up an ice-type Mutant in four minutes."

"The side of the vehicle had the three white capital letters MSR printed on it."

"Mr. Fury, is this team your people?"

The room was silent for four seconds.

During those four seconds, Hill's fingers stopped on the screen of the handheld terminal; her shoulders turned at an extremely slight angle, and her gaze swept over Fury's profile.

Fury placed the teacup back on the table; the sound of the cup bottom touching the table was very light.

"They are not my people."

"That makes it even more interesting."

Yan Zheng withdrew his hands beneath the edge of the table, crossed his fingers, and rested them on his knees, his tone remaining at the same temperature as when discussing antique market trends.

"On your turf, there is an armed force you don't know about that is publicly hunting super-powered individuals."

"Well-equipped, well-trained, and with standardized operational procedures."

"They are either Military, private contractors, or backed by some old friend you know."

"Regardless of which case it is, I think you would want to know more."

In Fury's one eye, the aperture of that scanner tightened even further.

"What do you want, Mr. Yan?"

"I can continue to help you handle this kind of dirty work—be it the remnants of The Hand, the outposts of E.S.S., or the whereabouts of MSR."

Yan Zheng's voice slowed by half a beat; every word was like placing an antique on a bar counter, with the position absolutely precise.

"In return, I only need some information."

"What information?"

"Records of public activities regarding certain special individuals."

Fury's finger started tapping the table again, the frequency a beat faster than before.

"What special individuals?"

Yan Zheng pushed up the gold-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose. The lenses reflected the warm light from the room's ceiling lamp, masking his eyes into two translucent ambers.

"Mutants."

The air in the room thickened.

It wasn't a change in temperature, but the oppressive feeling radiating from Fury—the "you've crossed the line" kind—silent, restrained, yet with an extremely strong presence, like an invisible wall rising between the two.

Hill's hand moved away from the handheld terminal and rested on her belt.

Fury looked into Yan Zheng's eyes for a long time.

Long enough for the Tieguanyin in Yan Zheng's cup to cool by half a degree.

"Mr. Yan."

Fury's voice was two tones lower than before, like an engine switching from cruise mode to standby mode.

"Do you know what the word Mutant means in certain circles?"

"I know what it means in your filing cabinet, Mr. Fury."

"Then you should also know what lies behind this door once it is opened."

"That is why I am sitting here talking to you, Mr. Fury."

Yan Zheng drank the tea that had cooled by half a degree in one gulp and placed the cup upside down on the table.

"Because the key to open this door is probably only in your hands in all of New York."

Fury stared at his inverted teacup for two seconds, then put down his own teacup as well.

He stood up, the hem of his black coat sweeping across the edge of the chair.

Hill had already walked to the door the moment he stood up, her hand resting on the doorknob.

"Mr. Yan, today's tea was not bad."

Fury walked around the table toward the door, stopping for half a step as he passed by Yan Zheng.

"I have accepted your intelligence, and I have heard your conditions."

"But I need time to confirm one thing."

"What thing?"

Fury's one eye turned to look at Yan Zheng for a second.

"To confirm whether you are the kind of person worth cooperating with, or the kind of person who will sooner or later be locked in the thirty-seventh underground level."

"We will be in touch."