AAAAAAHHHH—!!!"
Fury let out a feral roar.
He staggered to his feet and lurched toward the liquor cabinet.
On the top shelf sat a bottle he had planned to save for retirement day—
Macallan M, untouched, pristine.
He snatched it down, didn't bother with a glass, and ripped the cork out with his teeth.
"Glug… glug…"
The fiery liquid burned down his throat, but it couldn't extinguish the inferno raging inside him.
He drained more than half the bottle in one go.
Then he stumbled back to the couch and collapsed face-first into it.
The alcohol hit fast.
The world began to spin.
His eyelids grew heavy.
Consciousness slipped.
Fine.
Just sleep.
Maybe when he woke up, this would all have been a nightmare.
…
He didn't know how long had passed.
The safehouse grew darker.
The fireplace crackled softly, flames casting warped shadows along the walls.
Fury woke with a jolt.
That feeling.
The unmistakable sensation of being watched.
Agent instincts snapped him fully awake.
He rolled instantly, diving for cover, his hand reaching for his waist—
for the Smith & Wesson duty pistol that was always chambered.
But—
The moment his fingers brushed the grip—
"Whoosh—"
An invisible force swept through the room.
His wrist went light.
The pistol tore free of its holster, as if alive, and flew into the shadows.
"Do you need this, Nick?"
A voice drifted from beside the fireplace.
It was… wrong.
Sometimes it sounded like a single man.
Other times, like many voices layered together, phasing in and out.
Fury's muscles locked tight. He sprang up, fists raised, eyes fixed on the darkness.
A long, elegant hand emerged.
The pistol spun lazily between its fingers.
"Nice toy," the voice mused.
"Humans love inventing little machines that send themselves to meet me."
The man stepped into the firelight.
Fury finally saw him.
A strikingly handsome figure.
Dressed in a deep crimson velvet suit—tailored to perfection, radiating antique luxury.
Long black hair fell loosely around his shoulders.
A meticulously groomed beard framed his face.
Every movement carried the grace of a medieval noble.
"Who the hell are you?!" Fury barked, mind racing for anything nearby he could use as a weapon.
"Relax, Nick. Relax."
The man smiled, teeth gleaming.
"I mean you no harm. At least… not right now."
He crossed the room and sat elegantly on the opposite couch.
"As for who I am…"
"I've had many names."
"Some of them were… quite cruel. Hurtful, even."
"But I like you, Nick."
His facial features shimmered briefly, voice overlapping itself.
"You may call me—Mephisto."
"Mephisto?"
Fury frowned. Over the years he'd dealt with aliens, Asgardian gods, and things far stranger than myths.
"Lord of Hell?" Fury scoffed.
"What, did Hell have layoffs? You looking for a side hustle on Earth?"
"Ha! Humor."
Mephisto waved a hand, and the nearly empty bottle of Macallan M floated into his grasp.
"Tsk, tsk. Such a waste. This is rare where I come from."
He tilted the bottle slightly.
The liquor inside—somehow—refilled.
A crystal glass materialized in his other hand. He poured himself a drink.
"Sit, Nick. Don't be so tense. I'm not here to eat you."
Fury didn't sit. His gaze never left the devil's eyes.
"What do you want?" Fury asked coldly.
"If you're here to laugh at me, you're late. I've done that myself."
"Laugh at you? Oh no, no, no."
Mephisto waved dismissively.
"Why would I laugh?"
"I've been watching you, Nick."
His voice lowered, seductive and smooth.
"Because I admire you."
"I admire those… exceptional individuals."
"Those who are extraordinary—yet stubborn beyond redemption."
"You believe you're righteous. That you commit 'necessary evils.'"
"You watch the world. You build weapons. You try to eliminate threats before catastrophe strikes."
"You believe you're right."
"And yet… you always taste the bitter fruit."
Mephisto sighed, something like sympathy flickering in his eyes.
"Your obsession with secrecy destroyed you. Your need for control fed HYDRA."
"You wanted to protect the world—
and now the world wants to cut you out like a tumor."
"Look at you now, Nick."
"Hiding in a lightless hole. Drinking yourself numb."
"Watching that caped clown erase everything you built."
"Your S.H.I.E.L.D."
"Your Avengers."
"Your reputation."
"Your dignity."
"All gone."
Fury clenched his teeth, fists trembling.
"If this is therapy, you should charge."
"No," Mephisto said softly.
"I'm here to give you… an opportunity."
He snapped his fingers.
A sheet of yellowed parchment appeared on the coffee table—
alongside an old-fashioned quill pen.
"I know you hate."
Mephisto rose and moved behind Fury, whispering near his ear.
"You hate Pierce's betrayal. You hate the world's misunderstanding."
"And you hate him too, don't you?"
"That sanctimonious, arrogant man—
who turns saving the world into a live broadcast."
"You're intelligent, Nick. I don't believe you haven't noticed."
"Everything that's happened to you—
has a lot to do with him."
"He turned your life's work into a joke."
"You were never meant to end like this."
Fury fell silent. He wanted to argue.
He couldn't.
"Do you want a comeback, Nick?"
Mephisto's voice seeped into Fury's mind like wind through cracks.
"Do you want S.H.I.E.L.D. back?"
"Do you want to prove you were right?"
"Do you want the world to kneel before you again—begging for your protection?"
"I can give you power."
Mephisto opened his palm. Black flames bloomed there, twisting unnaturally.
"I can give you exactly what you desire most."
Fury stared at the dark fire. Struggle flickered in his eye.
"And the price?" Fury asked coldly.
"What's the price, Mephisto?"
"The price?" Mephisto laughed heartily.
"Oh ho ho—nothing you'll miss."
"Think about it, Nick."
"Using the devil's power… to defeat devils."
"Isn't that what you're best at?"
"Poison against poison. For the sake of justice."
Silence filled the room.
Finally—
Nick Fury reached for the quill and slowly signed his name.
"My entire life has been a series of deals," he muttered.
"Trading freedom for security. Lies for truth. A few lives for the many."
"If it sends those HYDRA bastards straight to Hell…"
"I'm willing to lead the way myself."
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T/N:
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