Susan woke slowly.
The ceiling above her was unfamiliar—clean, elegant, with a hanging light fixture she didn't recognize.
For a second, her mind was blank.
Then it all came rushing back.
She bolted upright.
The blanket slipped, and she immediately grabbed it, pulling it tight around herself as reality hit all at once.
Last night.
Everything.
"…Oh God."
She scanned the room instinctively, tension in her shoulders, but there was no one there.
Only silence.
Only the aftermath.
She leaned back against the wall, pressing a hand to her forehead.
What was I thinking…?
Her memory replayed it in fragments.
Dinner had been normal—almost disappointingly so. Noah had kept things casual, steering conversation in odd directions, asking about Reed, about experimental tech, about things that didn't quite fit together.
Then, after dinner, he'd taken her out again.
Not just across the city—he'd flown her to Washington like it was nothing. Shopping, wandering, talking.
By the time they returned, it was late.
And then—
He'd made the offer.
She had refused.
Clearly.
Firmly.
And he'd just smiled.
"Are you sure?" he'd said lightly. "Because I'm not sure your brother would appreciate me holding a grudge."
That had been enough.
Not a threat.
Not exactly.
But close enough.
After that… things had escalated.
She remembered Camila.
Remembered the moment things stopped being normal.
And then—
She squeezed her eyes shut.
No. Not thinking about that.
The door opened.
Susan flinched slightly.
Camila walked in like she owned the place, holding a small box in one hand.
"Morning," she said casually.
Susan tightened the blanket instinctively.
Camila snorted.
"Relax. After last night, modesty feels a little late."
She popped something small and red into her mouth, chewing lazily. Almost immediately, her expression shifted—satisfaction, energy, something sharp flickering behind her eyes.
Susan cleared her throat.
"Where's—Mr. Vale?"
Camila raised an eyebrow.
"Just call him Noah. You're older than him, aren't you?"
She shrugged.
"He's out training. Same as always."
Susan hesitated.
"…I see."
Camila leaned against the doorframe.
"Oh, right. I'm supposed to pass along a message."
She said it like it barely mattered.
"He's already arranged time off for you. You've got the day to yourself."
A pause.
"Also—he was in a good mood last night."
Another pause.
"We're doing this again tonight."
Susan blinked.
"…I didn't agree to that."
Camila just smiled.
"Doesn't really matter."
Then she turned and left, the door closing behind her with a quiet click.
Susan stared at it for a long moment.
"…This is insane."
Online—
The situation had exploded.
Every platform, every feed, every discussion—Noah Vale was everywhere.
Criticism. Mockery. Outrage.
Nicknames spread fast, most of them less than flattering. Commentary ranged from serious condemnation to outright ridicule.
And the more it spread—
The louder it got.
On a popular talk show, the host leaned forward, smiling politely at his guest.
"So—what's your take on Noah Vale's actions yesterday?"
The guest didn't hesitate.
"It's indefensible," he said flatly. "Ordering violence against civilians? That's not just wrong—it's dangerous."
He leaned in slightly.
"The policy itself is questionable, but what he did? That crosses a line. He should be held accountable."
The clip went viral almost immediately.
Support poured in.
Agreement.
Validation.
Then—
A comment appeared.
Simple.
Direct.
From a brand-new account.
I'm a supporter of Noah Vale. You might want to reconsider what you just said.
At first, people laughed.
"Is this guy serious?"
"Of course there are people like this online."
"Peak internet moment right here."
Replies stacked up quickly, most of them mocking.
The guest himself responded not long after.
No. I stand by what I said.
That should have been the end of it.
Just another online argument.
Instead—
The original account replied again.
Your choice.
Nothing more.
Half an hour later—
The guest was in the hospital.
The image spread fast.
Stretcher.
Blood.
Chaos.
No official explanation.
But people connected the dots.
And before anyone could process it—
The same account posted again.
A new target.
A username.
And a short message.
Next.
Thirty minutes later—
Another image surfaced.
Another victim.
Same pattern.
Same silence.
No claims.
No explanations.
Just results.
Then a second account appeared.
Same style.
Same tone.
Another target.
Another message.
Your turn.
By the time the third incident hit—
People stopped laughing.
The jokes disappeared.
The comments slowed.
Something had shifted.
Police set up surveillance on the next identified target, waiting.
When the attacker arrived—
He didn't run.
Didn't fight.
Didn't even hesitate.
He let himself be arrested.
Calm.
Almost… satisfied.
But it didn't matter.
Because ten minutes later—
The target was still attacked.
Same outcome.
Same brutality.
Different person.
A new account posted the result.
And then another appeared.
And another.
Endless.
Untraceable.
Unstoppable.
The message was clear.
There wasn't just one.
There were many.
At S.H.I.E.L.D., Nick Fury stared at the data feed, expression unreadable.
"…This is getting out of hand."
Coulson stood nearby, arms crossed.
"Feels coordinated," he said. "Too clean to be random."
Natasha tilted her head slightly.
"Not random," she agreed. "It's structured."
Fury leaned back.
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then—
"…Hydra would do something like this."
The room went quiet.
Because if that was true—
Then this wasn't just about Noah anymore.
It was something bigger.
Something organized.
Something dangerous.
And it was already moving.