The dial tone hummed with a flat, digital coldness before the connection snapped open. Ethan sat at his desk, the "Samuel Rourke" voice modulator active—a deep, resonant baritone that carried the weight of money and bureaucratic absolute.
"Hello, I believe I should be speaking to a Miss Whitney Frost, correct?" Ethan asked, his tone devoid of warmth. "A mutual acquaintance spoke highly of your... discretion. We are ready to proceed with the trial."
On the other end, Whitney Frost was silent for a heartbeat. "The Frenchman mentioned a benefactor. I didn't realize it was a committee."
"Incorrect, we only work together for mutual interest. Luc owed a friend of mine and used the act of repaying the debt to ask for a favor. I am simply implementing said favor," Ethan replied smoothly. "This is a closed-loop medical trial. Private, highly experimental, and entirely off the grid. Within the hour, an associate will arrive at your location. You will be blindfolded for transport—no exceptions. You will review the legal and medical NDAs at the site, sign them, and the procedure will be completed shortly thereafter. Vitals will be drawn, and you will be returned exactly where you were found."
"And the result?" Whitney asked, her voice tight.
"The restoration as you were promised. The removal of the 'flaw' you hide behind that golden mask."
Another silence. Then, a sharp, clipped: "I'll be ready."
Ethan ended the call and leaned back, exhaling. "N.E.A.R., transmit the digital packet to Felicia. Include the route, the blindfold protocol, and the 'Secretary' script. Tell her that Masque will be prickly. And N.E.A.R.?"
"Yes, Ethan?"
"Make sure my school GPS loop is active. My father is driving me today."
"Initialization complete. Your digital ghost will be moving through your schedule as the day goes by."
"Perfect."
The drive to school was a masterclass in awkward silence. The interior of the family SUV smelled of stale coffee and the heavy, lingering tension from the night before. Ethan stared out the window at the passing Long Island suburbs, playing the part of the contrite, subdued son.
His father, Marcus, kept glancing over at him, his hands gripping the steering wheel at ten and two. He looked tired. There were new bags under his eyes, and his shoulders were hunched as if he were carrying a physical weight.
Ethan decided to throw him a bone. It was time to pivot the dynamic from "disappointed parent" to "supportive son."
"How's work been, Dad?" Ethan asked quietly. "Mom said you've been pulling a lot of late nights."
Marcus let out a long, weary sigh, the tension in his jaw easing just a fraction. "Hectic doesn't cover it, Ethan. The firm... Axiom Analytics... it was bought out last week. Some holding company called Rourke Holdings. The new owner is a ghost, but his methods are... terrifying."
Ethan kept his expression carefully neutral. Rourke Holdings. His own creation.
"Restructuring?" Ethan prompted.
"More like an execution," Marcus said, shaking his head. "The new management spent the last seventy-two hours auditing every department. They found things, Ethan. Embezzlement, kickbacks, falsified client reports. They fired sixty percent of the staff by yesterday afternoon. The senior partners are all gone. I'm one of the few department heads left, and they've already doubled my workload. It's a mess."
Ethan nodded sympathetically, though internally, he was reviewing the spreadsheets he'd compiled a few days ago. Axiom had been a hive of corruption, a perfect example of the rot in New York's middle-market finance. By using Samuel Rourke to purchase it, Ethan had gained a powerful scalpel.
If he had used Isaac Maddox, the purchase would have been flagged. Isaac was a biotech visionary, so owning Axiom was quite strange. Samuel Rourke, on the other hand, compared to Issac was quite boring. He was an institutional face—the kind of identity that could buy an accounting firm without raising an eyebrow. Now, Ethan could use Axiom to audit Emma Frost's growing empire and Isaac's lab expenses, creating a legal hall of mirrors that would make it impossible for the IRS or S.H.I.E.L.D. to find the center of his web.
"Maybe the new owner just wants a clean slate," Ethan offered.
"Maybe," Marcus muttered. "But he's running it like a skeleton crew. We're barely functioning. I don't even know how we're going to handle the new audit for that new Biotech company contract they just dropped on my desk."
'That was me too, Dad,' Ethan thought. 'Work hard. Consider it a promotion.'
"You're the best they've got, Dad. They probably kept you because you're the only one who actually knows how to do the math without stealing it."
Marcus looked over at him, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through his fatigue. "Thanks, kid. I needed that."
As the SUV pulled up to the curb of Midtown High, Marcus put the car in park and looked Ethan in the eye. "Look, about last night... I'm proud of you, Ethan. I really am. Just... don't shut us out. If you're bored, or if your brain is moving too fast for these classes, tell us. We'll figure it out together. Please just go to class. Don't make your mother worry. She's nearly four months pregnant, so let's try to make things easy on her, okay."
"Okay, I will, Dad. I promise."
Ethan stepped out of the car, adjusting his backpack. He watched the SUV pull away before turning toward the school doors. He had six hours of "normalcy" to survive.
Across the city, far from the Kane SUV, Felicia Hardy was operating on a much more aggressive clock. She stood in her penthouse, checking the seal on her tactical boots, when Peter emerged from the bedroom, looking bleary-eyed and already reaching for his web-shooters.
"I heard the phone, Fee," Peter said, his voice raspy with sleep. "Ethan? If something's going down before the Nevada flight, I'm coming with you."
Felicia turned, a sharp, playful glint in her eyes. She stepped into his space, her hands sliding up his chest to rest behind his neck. She leaned in, capturing his lips in a lingering, distracting kiss that tasted of expensive lip gloss and unspoken secrets. When she pulled back, she tapped the tip of his nose.
"Stay put, Pete," she purred. "Ethan needs an 'errand' run, and it's a girls-only trip. Besides, we're leaving for the desert in three hours. If you don't start packing those sensible hiking boots now, you'll be fighting bad guys in your sneakers. I'll be back in two."
Before he could argue, she was out the door. By the time she reached the service elevator, the playful girlfriend was gone. She donned a crisp, slate-grey blazer and pulled her hair back into a severe, professional bun. The "Secretary" persona settled over her like a second skin—cool, detached, and utterly efficient.
She checked her phone. A message from N.E.A.R., perfectly mimicking Ethan's clinical tone, blinked on the screen: [Route confirmed. Documents sent. Print a hard-copy. Client is waiting.]
"You're a pushy little kid, aren't you?" Felicia muttered, though she didn't slow down.
She made a quick stop at a 24-hour library branch, the printer whirring as it spat out thick stacks of non-disclosure agreements and medical waivers. The language was terrifying—legal jargon that essentially ceded a person's digital and biological soul to the Maddox Group. After renting a nondescript black sedan under a burner name, she pulled up to the curb of the high-security penthouse where Whitney Frost and Delilah stayed.
Whitney was waiting by the service entrance, her gold mask reflecting the morning sun like a warning sign. When she saw Felicia step out of the car, her posture shifted from predatory to perplexed.
"You?" Masque hissed, her hand twitching toward the concealed holster beneath her coat. "The 'Secretary' from Luc? The Secretary is the mutual acquaintance?"
"I wear as many hats as needed, Masque. Today, I'm your escort," Felicia said, her voice dropping into a flat, mid-Atlantic accent. She held out a heavy silk blindfold. "You should have been informed of the rules. No eyes on the road, no tracing the turns. Luc and the other person don't like nosey people. I'm in a bit of a rush, so let's get this over with."
Whitney stared at the blindfold for a long moment, the pride of the Maggia still existed within the desperation of a scarred woman. Finally, she removed her mask and tied the blindfold tight. "Let's get this over with."
The drive was silent. Felicia took a jagged, redundant route, doubling back through industrial zones until she reached the nondescript building that housed Ethan's primary lab. As the car approached, the reinforced steel shutters rolled up automatically—a seamless welcome from N.E.A.R.
Felicia parked as the shutters closed and guided Whitney inside. "You can take it off now."
Whitney pulled the silk away and froze. She had spent her life in the opulent bunkers of the underworld and the high-tech rooms of many people, but this was different. The lab didn't look like a workshop; it looked like a cathedral from the next century. The Genesis Cradle sat in the center, glowing with a soft, rhythmic amber light, surrounded by holographic displays that flickered with DNA sequences so complex they looked like alien scripture.
"Is this... Stark tech?" Whitney whispered, her voice echoing in the sterile air. "No. This should be beyond him. Where am I? Did your boss abduct an alien?"
"He's just very good at his hobbies," Felicia replied, stepping to a glass desk and sliding the printed documents across the surface. "Sign. Every page. Initial the clauses regarding biological patenting."
Whitney picked up a pen, her eyes still roaming the ceiling-mounted fabrication arms and the shimmering vats of liquid metal, the Machine Cells. "Do you work for him? The man on the phone? I thought you were loyal to Luc. He might be a better boss than Luc."
Felicia offered a thin, enigmatic smile. "No. I'm just a freelancer who happens to know where the bodies are buried. I work with either depending on the pay, and please stop trying to fish for information. Consider me a friendly face to help you relax. God knows you're going to need it once that machine starts humming."
Whitney signed the final page with a jagged flourish. "You're awfully casual for someone working with what seems to be two devils."
"I've spent my life around devils, Whitney," Felicia said, her tone suddenly turning ice-cold as she leaned over the desk. "A word of advice: don't try to figure out who owns this place. Don't look for the man behind the curtain. You're already indebted to Luc Moreau, and trust me, you only want one leash around your neck at a time."
Whitney shot back a venomous look. "And you? I suppose as a free agent, you don't get a leash?"
Felicia straightened her blazer, her gaze drifting toward the door, thinking of a boy in a Spider-Man suit currently packing his bags. "I'd leave Luc in a heartbeat if I could. But someone very close to me... someone I can't walk away from... keeps me in the orbit. So here we are. Two women, two leashes, just different ties and lengths."
She gestured toward the Genesis Cradle. "Now, change into the outfit and get in the pod. The doctor is in."