Panic and probing outside, S.H.I.E.L.D.'s task force closes in

Triskelion, Helicarrier, Strategic Command Center.

The piercing alarm had long been silenced, but its high-frequency buzzing seemed to still linger deep within everyone's eardrums. On the massive main screen, live footage from Highest Access Privileges Military Satellite presented an eerie, chilling calm.

Manhattan, under a clear blue sky.

The Baxter Building, like a sharp sword, pierces the sky.

Everything was exactly the same as before the "spatial anomaly" that had occurred just minutes before, a phenomenon worthy of being recorded in history and considered a miracle.

However, what was reflected in Nick Fury's single eye was not calm, but a bottomless, almost solidified panic.

He stared intently at the screen, and even in the constant temperature of the command center, the iconic black leather trench coat made him feel a chill seep into his bones.

"Where's the report?"

His voice was low and hoarse, like two pieces of rusty metal rubbing together.

A Level 7 Agent, drenched in sweat, his hands trembling so much on the holographic keyboard he could barely type out a complete command, stammered, "Sir... the data... the data is all messed up!"

"The spatial parameters, gravitational constant, energy readings over Westchester County... have all returned to normal. It's as if... as if nothing ever happened."

"Where's that Academy?" Fury's one eye snapped towards him, his gaze colder than the Siberia chill. "Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters! That damned complex, spanning dozens of hectares! Where did it go? Don't tell me it grew wings and flew away!"

"It..." The agent swallowed hard, pulling up another data comparison chart. "It's gone, sir. Physically, it's completely gone. All that's left is a huge, smooth gap in the foundation. And all our surveillance equipment recorded the same uninterpretable blank signal for three minutes and eleven seconds during the anomaly... It's like... it's like time and space in that area were 'cut out' out of thin air."

Cutting.

This word caused Fury's pupils to contract sharply.

Of course he knew where that Academy was.

Just over ten minutes ago, he witnessed firsthand via satellite how that colossal, sky-covering behemoth was forcibly "transported" from Westchester County, hundreds of kilometers away, through a dark, menacing spatial rift to the skies above Manhattan!

Then, as if swallowed by an invisible Beast, it silently merged into the outline of the Baxter Building and disappeared.

The entire process was brutal and tyrannical, filled with utter contempt for the laws of physics.

This is beyond the scope of "superpowers" that he can understand.

This is not a storm, Cyclops, or Telepathy.

This is... creation, or destruction.

This is a power possessed only by Deity.

And now, the holder of this power is entrenched in New York City right under his nose. Moreover, the other party has just recruited Hela, and a terrifying Witch can rival Hela and manipulate Scarlet Energy.

He thought of the desolate New Mexico desert that had been razed to the ground, of the Bifrost that had been pushed back to Asgard, and of the Destroyer being violently dismantled like a toy...

Each and every incident was like a resounding slap in the face, striking his proud "Avengers Initiative."

the Avengers?

What will we use to seek revenge?

Should we send Hawkeye to shoot down that moving aerial Bastion? Or should we send Natasha to provide psychological counseling to the Goddess of Death?

As for Tony Stark... Fury had no doubt that if his Iron Man Armor dared to get within a hundred meters of the Baxter Building, he would be torn to shreds by those crazed women and thrown into a furnace to see if they could make a new chair for their master.

An unprecedented sense of powerlessness, mixed with extreme fear of the unknown, gripped the heart of this king of spies like countless cold hands.

For the first time, he realized that all the cards he held in his hand—hidden bases, secret weapons, conspiracies capable of overturning the world order—were so pale and so laughable in the face of that unreasonable, table-flipping absolute power.

No!

We absolutely cannot sit idly by and wait to die!

Fury took a deep breath, forcibly suppressing the turmoil in his heart.

The more dangerous the situation, the more important it is to remain calm. He wasn't unfamiliar with Extremis, but this enemy surpassed all his previous ones.

A direct attack would be suicidal.

He needs intelligence.

Any information about the interior of Baxter Building, about Lynn, about those women... even the slightest Silk would be better than being completely clueless like a condemned prisoner awaiting trial.

We must send someone.

A small, elite, and reckless suicide squad...

Go and test that Beast to see if it is asleep or just dozing off.

In an instant, a face filled with ferocity and arrogance flashed into his mind.

"Contact Brock Rumlow." Fury's tone returned to its usual coldness and decisiveness. "Have him bring his best squad and assemble at the armory immediately."

"Yes, sir!"

Fifteen minutes later.

Helicarrier, B-7 area, special weapons depot.

The air was thick with the pungent smell of gun oil and the cold, metallic scent.

Brock Rumlow, codenamed "Crossbones," slammed a magazine full of specially made high-explosive rounds into his tactical rifle with a "click."

A hint of bloodthirsty excitement flickered across his face.

"Boss, what exactly is this mission? Why all this fuss?" a member of the STRIKE Team asked curiously as he calibrated the hydraulic system on his exoskeleton.

The table in front of them was filled with S.H.I.E.L.D..'s most advanced individual equipment, some of which were still in the experimental stage.

A combat suit capable of briefly distorting light to achieve semi-invisibility, Phantom.

The "Aria" oscillator can emit high-frequency sound waves and is specifically designed to interfere with the brainwaves of Mutants.

There were even three energy pistols equipped with miniature "Gamma Ray Bullets," which were a few scraps of information that Dr. Banner. had "borrowed" from S.H.I.E.L.D.. Banner's research before he fled. They were said to be able to cause irreversible cellular-level damage to organisms with super-healing abilities.

This equipment is more than enough to allow them to assassinate Captain America.

"Shut up and get to work." Crossbones didn't answer, only giving him a cold glance. "That one-eyed Fury only said one sentence."

What did you say?

Crossbones grinned, revealing a set of white teeth, his smile filled with Beast cruelty.

He said, "For this mission, we can disregard all rules of engagement."

Ignoring all rules of engagement.

These words made all the STRIKE team members present breathe heavily.

They were all elites who had crawled out of mountains of corpses and seas of blood, the sharpest "dirty work" handling team in S.H.I.E.L.D.. For them, this meant... they could unleash their full power and go on a killing spree.

"Who is the target? Magneto? Or has some monster emerged from the Red Room again?"

"None of those."

The heavy alloy doors of the armory slid open silently, and Nick Fury walked in, wearing his ever-present black trench coat.

His face was even more somber than usual, and the gaze in his single eye was as sharp as a Scalpel, slowly scraping across the faces of each team member.

"Your target is the Baxter Building."

Fury's voice echoed through the empty armory.

"I need you to infiltrate Manhattan and penetrate the outer perimeter of the buildings. Your mission is not combat, not sabotage, but... reconnaissance."

"Use all your equipment and find out exactly what's going on in that building right now. Energy level, personnel distribution, defense system... I need data, the rawest, most accurate data!"

"Remember," Fury's tone turned unusually grave, "You may not be facing humans. Once exposed, don't linger in battle, retreat immediately. Your lives aren't worth losing to a single test."

Despite what he said, Crossbones and his team could sense the extreme danger of this mission from Fury's unprecedentedly serious expression.

"Sir, forgive my bluntness," Crossbones frowned, "Is this ' Godslayer ' equipment really necessary for mere reconnaissance?"

Fury was silent for a moment, a flicker of fear he himself didn't realize flashed in his single eye.

He slowly raised his hand and pointed to a tactical screen on the wall.

The screen lit up, playing satellite footage from just over ten minutes earlier showing the massive Mutants Academy being dragged into Spatial Rift.

Although the image had been altered, the unimaginable, cataclysmic horror still plunged the entire armory into a deathly silence.

The members of the STRIKE Team gradually lost their bloodlust and excitement, replaced by undisguised shock and horror.

They finally understood why Fury had brought out his most prized equipment.

I finally understood another meaning of "ignoring the rules of engagement"—because in the face of that kind of enemy, any rules are meaningless.

"Now, are there any more questions?" Fury asked coldly.

Crossbones stared intently at the screen, his Adam's apple bobbing. He licked his dry lips and hung the last piece of equipment—a signal jammer capable of blocking most energy detection—on his waist.

He turned around to face his teammates, and his fierce face was no longer frivolous.

"Check your gear! We're off in five minutes!"

"Yes, sir!"

The night was as dark as ink.

A completely black Quinjet, without any markings, silently glided into the edge of Manhattan at an extremely low altitude.

The fighter jet did not land; its hatch opened five kilometers from the Baxter Building.

A dozen or so dark figures, like agile cheetahs, used grappling hooks to descent rapidly from tens of meters in the air, silently disappearing into the shadows of the city's steel jungle.

Crossbones crouched on the rooftop of a building, peering through tactical goggles at the towering Baxter Building in the distance.

Under the cover of night, it looked no different from usual, even the lights seemed sparse, exuding an eerie tranquility.

"Squads, report your situation," he whispered the command over the encrypted channel.

"Alpha Team in position, no anomalies detected."

"Beta Team in position, environmental energy readings stable."

"Gamma Team in position, all normal."

Everything is normal.

But this "normality" actually made a strange unease well up in Crossbones ' heart.

He shook his head, dispelling the ominous premonition.

He is Brock Rumlow, Hydra's strongest warrior and S.H.I.E.L.D..'s sharpest blade. He never trusts premonitions, only the gun in his hand and the strength of his brothers.

"Very good."

Crossbones checked the safety on his rifle, and the corners of his mouth curled up again into that confident yet cruel smile.

"As originally planned, infiltration will proceed separately from directions A, B, and C."

"Remember our mission: we're here to find out how deep the Rat Hole is, not to fight the rats."

He stood up and gave his final instructions to everyone in the channel.

"Action."

Those two cold words signaled the official start of S.H.I.E.L.D..'s first and most deadly test of Lynn.

However, these elite agents, who considered themselves hunters, were unaware of this.

The moment they set foot on Manhattan soil.

In the Negative Zone Prison deep beneath the Baxter Building.

A Red-haired Woman, who had just been appointed "Warden," slowly opened her pair of emerald green eyes, which burned with a morbid fervor.

A cruel smile curled at the corners of her lips.

Her new prisoners, it seems... are due for their first real "outing."