Grizzly Club on Fifth Avenue.
When Sean saw General Ross again, the spirited old man, once brimming with fighting spirit, had lost the dominance and majesty of someone who controlled every situation. His left hand was bandaged, and his face wore a gloomy, listless expression.
A lit cigar rested to one side, while a bottle of hard liquor was already half-empty—enough to prove that the general was in an exceptionally foul mood. A man of such unwavering will had been reduced to drowning his sorrows in drink.
"I couldn't help with the S.H.I.E.L.D. matter. Fury is even more stubborn than I am. I've suggested countless times that an organization of that size needs oversight. They're all dangerous elements, with no sense of national honor!" Ross complained bitterly.
No one in the military liked those Black-Suited Agents. They unanimously believed S.H.I.E.L.D. was an uncontrollable ticking time bomb and had repeatedly demanded, with a hard-line attitude, that Nick Fury surrender part of his authority—especially access to the database for the Department of Defense, to ensure homeland security and resource sharing.
Unfortunately, that Black director had never responded directly even once. He kept changing the subject; put another way, he had simply ignored the military's proposals.
"General, the fact that you spoke up for me was already an enormous help." Sean poured him a drink. "I saw the news about the explosion at the Culver University laboratory in Virginia, then heard that you and Betty had been injured and hospitalized, so I came to visit."
General Ross's expression eased somewhat, no longer quite so stern. It was rare to find that this young man was not a petty opportunist who fawned on the powerful. "I wanted to accelerate the experiment. Since I had to conceal the project's true purpose from Banner, I initially