A showcase of power

A week later, at a newly opened, premier gallery in Midtown Manhattan, New York.

Steady drizzle shrouded the night. Cold rain washed over the city's neon lights, turning the streets beyond the car windows into blurred patches of shimmering color. Inside the gallery, however, it was as warm as spring and brightly lit. The lilting music of a string quartet flowed through the air, mingling with the fragrance of fine champagne and quiet conversation to form a quintessential scene of high-society mingling.

By any measure, the opening reception for the art exhibition "City New Life" ranked as New York's most prestigious cultural event of the season.

The organizer was D.O.D.C.-the Department of Damage Control. This agency, which had broken away from the ruins of S.H.I.E.L.D. after the Project Insight incident and risen to prominence for providing crucial intelligence, was attempting to reenter the public eye with an entirely new, more "approachable" image. Art was undoubtedly the best medium.

The guests were all wealthy or powerful. A senator in an expensive suit chatted amiably with members of Stark Industries' board of directors; a military general wearing his stars listened impassively as New York's deputy mayor outlined plans for postwar reconstruction. Reporters from major media outlets threaded through the crowd like keen-nosed hounds, trying to catch any scrap of valuable information.

Security at the gallery rivaled that of a small United Nations conference. Security personnel in well-tailored black suits and discreet earpieces were stationed seemingly casually in every corner. Some posed as waiters, while others blended into the crowd like ordinary guests, glasses in hand. But their hawklike eyes, ramrod-straight bearing, and the faint outlines of muscle beneath their suits all marked them unmistakably as elite professionals.

Maya Chen stood before her work, looking somewhat ill at ease. She felt like an ugly duckling that had wandered into a lake full of swans.

She wore a dress she had bought overnight, the only presentable formal dress in her wardrobe. The high heels on her feet made her take every step carefully. Everything around her was so glamorous, so unreal.

Three days earlier, when she received the invitation call from D.O.D.C., she had thought it was a scam. She did not remember entering any competition, but the caller had accurately described details of her work and paid the considerable costs of transporting and installing it. They had even sent a professional image consultant to arrange everything for her tonight.

Her work, a metal sculpture titled "Seed Beneath the Ruins," stood at the very center of the gallery, in the best-lit spot. It was an enormous fist welded together from countless discarded screws, pieces of rebar, bearings, and metal fragments scavenged from the wreckage of Chitauri warships. The fist was clenched tight, every line in the metal seeming to speak of struggle and rage. Yet between its fingers, a gleaming shoot made of mirror-polished metal grew tenaciously.

The piece brimmed with raw power and understated hope, perfectly fitting the exhibition's theme of "City New Life." It consequently drew the most attention.

"A splendid piece, Miss Chen." An unctuous voice sounded beside her.

Maya Chen turned to see a heavyset, gray-haired man holding a glass of wine, examining her work as though appraising merchandise. She recognized him from the evening's guest booklet: Senator Stern of the Senate Armed Services Committee.

"Thank you, Senator," Maya Chen replied politely.

"I hear you collected all these materials yourself from the ruins in Queens?" Senator Stern asked with interest, though his eyes strayed toward Dr. Evelyn Reed, who was speaking with someone nearby.

"Yes, every piece."

"A remarkable young woman. Resilient, creative-the very embodiment of New York's spirit." Senator Stern offered praise, but his thoughts were already far away; he had not come tonight to admire scrap metal.

On the rooftop of the neighboring high-rise.

Cold rain dripped from the edge of a waterproof tarp. Zhao Fan lay prone in the shadows, quietly watching everything inside the gallery through high-powered tactical binoculars. Its warmth, light, and bustle seemed to belong to another world. He could clearly see the mixture of excitement and nervousness on Maya Chen's face, as well as the undisguised calculation in Senator Stern's eyes.

Beside him, Old Dog Jose monitored their surroundings with a military-grade thermal imager, still grumbling under his breath. "Tsk, look at those bastards, all dressed up like respectable people. I bet half the people in there belong on the nation's wall of shame. That she-devil really knows how to put on a show. Fan, this security does look pretty intimidating."

"The visible security is for the guests. The hidden security is the real insurance," Zhao Fan said evenly, lowering his binoculars. "Our people from three D.O.D.C. field teams have infiltrated the official federal security detail, under my direct command. Benjamin took over the entire building's network fifteen minutes ago, including surveillance, fire protection, and power. If any unauthorized energy source or biological signature comes within three hundred meters, we'll get an alert within 0.5 seconds."

"All right. I feel like you're getting more and more like that one-eyed bastard, making backup plans for everything." Old Dog smacked his lips and fell silent, focusing more intently on his monitoring screen.

Zhao Fan did not respond. His gaze returned to the gallery. Watching Maya Chen surrounded by those powerful figures, listening to their insincere praise, he felt a complicated mixture of emotions rise within him: pride, relief, but above all a faint sense of guilt.

He had built her a stage that seemed dazzling and bright, but every plank was held together with lies and danger. He had placed her in the spotlight while retreating into deeper darkness himself. It was protection, but it was also a kind of abduction.

Inside the gallery, the struggle for power unfolded silently.

Holding a glass of champagne, Dr. Evelyn Reed moved effortlessly among the various guests. She had shed her signature white lab coat for an elegantly tailored dark-blue evening gown, making her look less like a cold scientist and lending her more charm and grace.

"Congratulations, Dr. Reed." Senator Stern finally found an opportunity to intercept Evelyn. "D.O.D.C. has undergone quite a transformation under your leadership. This exhibition is a tremendous success, a real shot in the arm for the city."

"You're too kind, Senator. The credit belongs to the team." Evelyn smiled, maintaining just the right distance. "D.O.D.C.'s duty is to heal wounds, whether those of the city or its people."

"Well said. But, Doctor, I hear... the Department of Defense intends to cut part of D.O.D.C.'s budget. You know, the economy is struggling. Now that the bottomless pit called S.H.I.E.L.D. has collapsed, someone has to tighten their belt." Senator Stern spoke with apparent casualness, but his eyes watched Evelyn's reaction closely.

"I understand the military's difficulties." Evelyn's smile remained unchanged. "However, Senator, you may not yet be familiar with D.O.D.C.'s new structure following its reorganization. We are now a semi-independent federal executive agency with more diversified funding sources. In addition to the defense budget, we receive United Nations peacekeeping allocations and sponsorship from private companies such as Stark Industries. We handle the world's 'special waste,' and that waste often has considerable 'salvage value.'"

Her words carried a deeper meaning. She made it clear that D.O.D.C. was no longer a subordinate department to be manipulated at will, while hinting that they controlled "resources" capable of attracting the interest of every faction.

Senator Stern's fleshy face twitched before he burst into laughter. "Diversification is good, very good! It means greater efficiency and flexibility. Doctor, you get things done. I admire that."

"Speaking of Stark Industries..." A middle-aged man with a sober demeanor and an immaculate suit approached. He was Mr. Davidson, Stark Industries' representative and vice president of its legal department. "Dr. Reed, Tony asked me to send his regards. He's very interested in D.O.D.C.'s new direction, but he also has certain... concerns. You know, regarding those recovered 'special assets,' particularly anything involving Stark technology, he would like a more transparent oversight process."

This was a warning from their "financial backer," because Stark Industries still held D.O.D.C.'s technological lifeline.

"Please tell Tony that his concerns are mine as well." Evelyn turned to Davidson, her expression growing serious. "That is precisely why I pushed so hard for D.O.D.C.'s independence. Mr. Davidson, you and I both know how S.H.I.E.L.D.'s tragedy happened. When technology, power, and political ambition mix, they become a monster. Not only will D.O.D.C. be subject to joint oversight, but its foremost principles going forward will be 'purification' and 'containment.' We are scavengers, not weapons manufacturers. Every recovered item involving core Stark technology will immediately undergo both data and physical isolation before being transferred back to Stark Industries. That has already been written into our new charter."

Her answer was airtight. It reassured Stark while once again emphasizing her agency's "neutrality" and "professionalism," drawing a clear line between it and S.H.I.E.L.D.

Just then, General Phillips, a burly military officer with stars on his shoulders, approached. His voice boomed like a bell. "Dr. Reed, the exhibition is very nice, but we soldiers are rough sorts who don't know much about these things. What concerns me more is when you intend to begin salvaging those three big boys in the Potomac River."

At last, the evening's true subject had arrived. The wreckage of three Helicarriers was an unprecedented technological treasure trove-and a hot potato.

"General, salvage operations have already begun." Evelyn turned toward the imposing general, speaking neither submissively nor arrogantly. "But as you know, all three carriers sustained severe damage to their power cores and weapons systems, creating an extremely high risk of energy leaks and radioactive contamination. Under the preliminary draft issued by the government and United Nations guidelines, handling such high-risk wreckage must fall entirely under the authority of a professionally qualified agency such as D.O.D.C."

She deftly invoked the United Nations and forthcoming legislation as shields, shutting off any avenue for military intervention.

General Phillips frowned. "Are you saying the military isn't even qualified to approach?"

"Of course not, General." Evelyn immediately softened her tone. "We are short-staffed and very much need military assistance, particularly with perimeter security and transportation. But 'purification' within the core area must be performed by our specialist teams. That is our responsibility to everyone's safety. Naturally, we will immediately prepare inventories of all recovered wreckage involving high-risk technology and submit them to the government and the military."

She had drawn a clear line: D.O.D.C. had to perform the core work, while subsequent technological sharing could be offered to the military. It was a compromise, but also a declaration that brooked no challenge.

This war without gunfire quietly played out among champagne and works of art. As part of the "exhibits," Maya Chen was introduced to these powerful figures by Evelyn. They offered her polite compliments and expressed appreciation for her work, but Maya Chen could sense that their gazes lingered on her only briefly. Their true attention rested on the woman beside her, the doctor who controlled D.O.D.C.

She and her work were merely a symbol, a political tool Evelyn used to showcase D.O.D.C.'s new image.

The realization left her somewhat disappointed, but also filled her with greater motivation.

At last, Evelyn stepped up to the central podium.

The gallery instantly fell silent, every gaze converging on her.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to 'City New Life,' an art exhibition hosted by D.O.D.C." Her voice was clear and strong, carrying throughout the venue through the microphone. "Over the past few years, our city has endured far too many wounds. We have seen heroes descend from the sky, and monsters rampage through our streets. S.H.I.E.L.D. was established to protect the world, but in the end, its own shadows nearly devoured us. Today, S.H.I.E.L.D. is history, but the wounds and ruins it left behind remain ours to clear away."

"D.O.D.C.'s duty is not merely to clear away physical ruins. It is also to establish a new order-a transparent, professional, and singular order-to confront this new era of superhuman threats. We believe the first step in rebuilding is healing people's hearts. And art is the best medicine."

"Tonight, we are delighted to see that New York's younger generation has not been crushed by disaster. With their brushes and their hands, they have shown us this city's indomitable soul. By unanimous decision of the judging committee, we have selected the gold prize winner of this exhibition..."

Evelyn paused, sweeping her gaze across the room before settling precisely on Maya Chen, a trace of genuine appreciation in her eyes.

"She is-the creator of 'Seed Beneath the Ruins,' Miss Maya Chen!"

Camera flashes and applause surged toward Maya Chen at once. Her mind went blank, and she had no idea what to do.

"Not only that," Evelyn's voice rang out again, carrying an unquestionable force, "to better communicate our ideals of 'protection and rebuilding' to the public, D.O.D.C. has decided to establish a new department-the Department of Public Relations and Publicity. We need someone talented, passionate, and deeply attuned to this city's soul to lead it. Therefore, I hereby formally announce that D.O.D.C. will officially hire Miss Maya Chen as the first director of the Department of Propaganda!"

This time, the room's response went beyond polite applause. A sharp gleam flashed in Senator Stern's eyes, General Phillips' brow furrowed deeply, and Mr. Davidson, Stark Industries' representative, looked thoughtful.

Evelyn Reed had played this move beautifully. Not only had she successfully built a positive public image for D.O.D.C. through an art exhibition, but by promoting a civilian artist with no connections, she had also sent a message to the outside world: the new D.O.D.C. was open and belonged to the people, rather than being a tool for some secret elite group to manipulate. She was deftly draping this powerful agency in a soft mantle called "public opinion."

On the rooftop, Zhao Fan lowered his binoculars. Rain struck his waterproof tarp with a monotonous patter.

"All right, Old Dog. We're done."

"That's it?" Old Dog lowered the thermal imager, still wanting more. "I was hoping some fool would come stir up trouble. Instead, I spent the whole evening watching people fake smiles."

Zhao Fan said nothing. He watched Maya Chen inside the gallery, surrounded by reporters and celebrities, the smile on her face so genuine. From this day forward, her life would change completely. She would have a bright future, a comfortable life, and... an invisible cage.

A splendid cage built from safety, status, and dreams.

Zhao Fan knew this was the best arrangement he could make for her. In the approaching world of greater chaos and danger, placing her under the protection of D.O.D.C., a warship growing ever sturdier, was far safer than leaving her in that shabby apartment, where she might be swept into a bloody maelstrom at any moment.

"Let's go." Zhao Fan stood and began packing his equipment.

He turned and melted into the rooftop's darkness, as though he had never been there.

Beneath the gallery's dazzling lights lay Maya Chen's new life and Evelyn Reed's arena of power; in the shadows of the city's cold, rainy night stood Zhao Fan, the "cleaner," and his never-ending war.