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Coulson, who was almost at the airport, had no choice but to turn back.

By the time they arrived at Prince Street, the police had already taken full control of the building.

Outside the cordon, a patrol officer stopped them. Coulson showed his ID. "FBI." They were then allowed into the scene without issue.

"I'm New York City Police Commissioner George Stacy. Who are you? Why are you here? Who let you in?" Commissioner George said irritably.

Today, during the city budget meeting, the police department had once again been singled out for criticism. Low case clearance rates, rampant criminals, and so on—they wanted to cut the budget.

Street punks were one thing, but what about those major organizations? Did the council members present really not know what was going on? Detectives worked their asses off to catch people, only for a council member to make one phone call and have them released without even bothering to make up an excuse.

George was furious, which was why he had personally come to this "minor case"—to vent the fire in his chest.

"I'm FBI Agent Coulson, and these are my team members. We need to look into a special situation. Don't worry, we won't interfere with or obstruct your investigation. If you have any questions, you may call your superior. We've already received authorization. I apologize in advance for the inconvenience."

Coulson did his best to appear friendly and humble.

"If you know you're inconveniencing people, then don't do it. Apologizing after the fact just makes you look hypocritical. What the F**K is the point?" George did not bother concealing his displeasure. Call his superior?

What would that get him besides a few empty official phrases?

George summoned the detective in charge. "Cooperate with them. But if they try