Fury: I'm Not Like Hydra

"You—"

Sitwell's fat body had just burst through the door when it suddenly froze. A bullet entered his forehead with perfect precision and exited through the back of his skull, carrying with it a spray of murky blood mixed with brain matter.

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Thud—

Sitwell's corpse toppled stiffly forward, slamming heavily onto the floor outside the conference room with a dull crash.

His face still bore the panic from the instant before death, along with a trace of hopeful luck over this sudden turn of events.

Blood rapidly spread beneath the body, soon pooling into a horrifying puddle.

Then, the heavy conference room doors bearing S.H.I.E.L.D.'s eagle emblem were violently shoved open from outside.

A broad-shouldered figure in a black leather trench coat strode in. His single eye gleamed with icy light, and his face was completely expressionless—it was none other than Nick Fury.

He still held a pistol in his hand, wisps of smoke rising from its barrel. Clearly, he had fired the shot outside.

"I knew you wouldn't die that easily. You're harder to kill than a cockroach."

Alexander Pierce showed no panic at Nick Fury's sudden appearance. Instead, he wore a smug expression as if he had expected this all along. Smiling, he teased, "Fury, should I praise you for being brave? Or call you stupid? You were arrogant enough to come looking for me alone?"

"Is that so?" Nick Fury entered the conference room with his gun raised, his leather shoes clicking clearly against the polished floor. His sharp eye first swept over the two burly guards beside Alexander Pierce, then locked onto Pierce's face. He sneered, "Pierce, quit the act. Wasn't it you who sent that fake Captain America to assassinate me on the street?"