Max_Striker
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Chapter 9: Red Flags
🕑 Added 2025-08-03 07:16:46 +0000 UTCJay was halfway through his third breakfast sandwich when his phone buzzed, vibrating against the worn surface of his kitchen table. The caller ID flashed a familiar name: Henderson.
"Jay, we have a situation," Henderson said, his voice stretched taut with urgency. "A high-power executive is in bad shape. This is a delicate one—strictly no hospitals, no questions. They just need someone who can fix it, quietly."
Jay set his coffee mug down, the warmth of the ceramic instantly forgotten. He was alert now, the last vestiges of his morning haze evaporating. "What kind of emergency?"
"Internal injury. She was cagey with the details, but she's offering thirty thousand dollars. Cash. Same day."
Jay's eyebrows climbed. "Where?"
"Manhattan. Midtown corporate district. I'll text you the address."
A knot of unease tightened in Jay's gut. "What's the client's name?"
"Caldwell," Henderson replied. "That's all she'd give me. But the address... well, let's just say she can afford whatever you charge."
After the call ended, Jay stared at the black screen of his phone. Everything about this felt wrong—the frantic pace, the obsessive secrecy, the skeletal details. But thirty grand was thirty grand, and despite the Henderson payment, his savings account was a shallow pond, not the deep lake he needed it to be.
The address led him to a corporate monolith of glass and steel that seemed to punch a hole in the sky. Standing on the sidewalk, Jay craned his neck, looking up at the endless, mirrored windows reflecting a distorted version of the city below. He smoothed down his bargain-bin button-down and adjusted his discount slacks, feeling like a cheap knockoff in a gallery of priceless originals.
The lobby was an echoing cavern of polished marble and chrome, populated by security guards who looked like they were carved from granite. Jay forced himself forward, his cheap shoes squeaking softly on the immaculate floor as he approached the reception desk.
"I'm here to see Ms. Caldwell," he said, pitching his voice to project a confidence he was miles from feeling.
The receptionist, a woman who looked like she’d been airbrushed onto the cover of a business magazine, gave him a cursory glance. "Floor forty-seven," she said, her attention already back on her screen. "You're expected."
The elevator ride was a silent, unnerving ascent through layers of corporate power he could barely imagine. The air grew thinner, the pressure building in his ears with each floor number that lit up. When the doors finally slid open, they revealed a hallway that didn't just whisper money—it screamed it from the museum-quality art on the walls and the plush carpet that swallowed the sound of his footsteps.
Suite 4701 was at the very end. Jay knocked once, a sharp rap against the heavy wood, and a buzzer unlocked the door instantly.
The penthouse office was larger than his entire apartment building, dominated by floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a view of Manhattan that probably cost more per month than he used to make in a year. Seated behind a desk that looked like it was carved from a single piece of obsidian was a woman in her early forties. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a severe bun, and her charcoal suit was tailored with surgical precision.
"Ms. Caldwell?" Jay asked.
"Just Caldwell." Her voice was clipped and professional, but it was layered over a tremor of pain she was fighting to conceal. "You're the healer Henderson mentioned."
"That's me." Jay stepped closer, his eyes cataloging the details. The rigid set of her shoulders, the way she favored her left side. "What seems to be the problem?"
"Internal injury. Three days ago. It's... worsening."
"How did it happen?"
Her jaw tightened, a barely perceptible flicker of a muscle. "The specifics are not relevant. Can you fix it or not?"
Jay studied her, seeing past the corporate armor. There were deep-set stress lines around her eyes, and her left hand, resting on the desk, had the faint tremor of someone battling constant, grinding discomfort.
"I need to examine you. And for this to work, I need you to be honest with me about the cause." He gestured toward a sleek leather couch near the windows. "Could you lie down? I need to get a sense of the damage."
Caldwell moved to the couch, each step a masterpiece of controlled movement. As she lay back, Jay saw the tell-tale signs: the shallow breaths, the careful positioning to take pressure off her left flank. He knelt beside her, placing his hands gently over her ribs. Closing his eyes, he let his senses drift inward, mapping the landscape of her injury.
It was bad. Her spleen was ruptured, not from a single, sharp impact, but from sustained, crushing pressure. A slow, steady bleed had been poisoning her from the inside for days. Without intervention, she'd be dead within the week.
"This wasn't an accident, was it?" he said quietly, opening his eyes. "This wasn't one clean blow. What really happened?"
Caldwell's eyes snapped open, and for a fleeting moment, the mask of the executive fell away, revealing the terrified person beneath. "I had a... disagreement with a colleague," she said, the words carefully chosen. "It became physical. He got me in the ribs, and something shifted. In my world," she continued, her voice low and intense, "there are unfriendly eyes everywhere. Any sign of weakness is a vulnerability to be exploited. A hospital visit means questions, reports, a paper trail. I can't afford that kind of attention."
A chill unrelated to the office's air conditioning prickled Jay's skin. He was getting a clearer picture now, a glimpse into a corporate culture so predatory that physical assault was a negotiation tactic and seeking medical care was a career-ending mistake.
"I can fix this," he said, his voice firm. "But you need to understand, left untreated, this would have killed you."
"I'm aware of the risks."
Jay placed his hands back over the injury. A soft, green light bloomed between his palms, and he focused, letting his energy flow into her. Healing internal injuries was an intricate dance. He had to do more than just mend tissue; he had to guide the regeneration, re-weaving the delicate tapestry of blood vessels, ensuring everything reconnected perfectly, leaving no trace of the damage behind.
Caldwell watched the light without flinching, though he could feel her muscles quiver as the healing energy surged through her. The ruptured tissue began to knit itself together, the internal bleeding slowed, stopped, and then reversed as the damaged cells were purged and replaced.
When he finished, Jay sat back, a wave of exhaustion washing over him. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Internal jobs always took a heavier toll, and this one had been a deep drain.
"How do you feel?"
She sat up, moving with a fluid grace that had been absent before. She took a deep, full breath, and for the first time since he'd arrived, her expression seemed genuinely relaxed. "Better," she said, a hint of awe in her voice. "Much better." She rose, walked to her obsidian desk, and withdrew a thick envelope from a locked drawer. "Your fee, as agreed."
Jay took the envelope, the weight of the cash a solid, reassuring presence in his hand. He didn't bother counting it.
"One more thing," Caldwell said as he turned to leave. Her voice was back to its steely, professional tone. "No one can know you were here. I trust that won't be a problem?"
"Patient confidentiality," Jay assured her. "I was never here."
As he walked out, paranoia gnawed at him. He wiped down the doorknob, the elevator button—any surface he might have touched. It felt like overkill, but the atmosphere in this place had his nerves screaming.
He was crossing the lobby when he saw him.
A man was standing by the security desk, speaking quietly with one of the guards. He was tall, with dark hair, wearing an expensive suit that failed to completely mask a disciplined, military posture. He held up some sort of credentials, and the guard nodded respectfully.
Jay's blood turned to ice. His inner comic nerd, the database of faces and facts he'd been trying to suppress, kicked into overdrive.
Grant Ward.
The name hit him like a physical blow. Hydra's top sleeper agent, currently embedded deep within S.H.I.E.L.D. A specialist in infiltration, interrogation, and making problems like him permanently disappear. Jay’s step faltered, just for a second, and he had to brace a hand against a cold marble pillar to steady himself.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
Every instinct screamed at him to bolt, but that would be like waving a giant, glowing flag. He forced his legs to move, to maintain a normal pace, to walk toward the exit. He fought the overwhelming urge to look back, his mind a repeating loop of a single, terrifying phrase: You're blown. You're completely blown.
His hands were trembling by the time he hit the street, and it had nothing to do with the healing he'd just performed.
Ward being here was no coincidence. Either he'd been called to investigate an "unauthorized medical specialist," or worse—this was a trap from the very beginning.
By the time Jay made it back to the relative safety of his apartment, his phone buzzed. A text.
New guy came asking for you. Corporate badge—Roxxon something. Big guy, looked military. Nobody told him nothing, but he was asking the right questions. Heads up. -Bobby
Jay sank into his desk chair, the pieces clicking into place with sickening finality.
Caldwell. Roxxon. One of the most notoriously dangerous corporations in the Marvel universe, an entity that made the Umbrella Corporation look like a non-profit. He had just healed a top executive.
Henderson couldn't have known. The man was connected, but his world was one of hostile takeovers, not covert ops and corporate assassins. He thought he was doing Jay a favor. Instead, he’d marched him directly into the crosshairs of both Roxxon and Hydra.
His mind spun, racing through contingencies. The money was good, but it wasn't "get black-bagged by a Hydra death squad" good. It wasn't "become a permanent research subject for Roxxon's medical division" good.
The naive kid taking jobs at face value was gone. From now on, it had to be background checks, client screening, multiple exit strategies.
His phone buzzed again. Henderson.
"Everything go smoothly?" Henderson asked cheerfully.
Jay took a breath, choosing his words with care. "More or less. Though in the future, I might need a bit more information upfront."
"Of course. Anything specific?"
He considered telling Henderson everything—the assault, the cutthroat culture, Grant Ward in the lobby. But Henderson was a civilian. Involving him would just put him in danger.
"Just standard due diligence," Jay said, the lie tasting like ash. "Client backgrounds, company affiliations. The usual."
"Understood. I'll be more thorough."
After hanging up, Jay emptied the envelope onto his desk. Thirty thousand dollars in crisp hundred-dollar bills. More money than he'd seen at one time in his entire life, old or new.
But as he stared at the pile of cash, all he could see was Grant Ward's face. All he could feel was the cold dread of being seen, of being known.
He'd wanted freedom. In the Marvel universe, he was learning, freedom wasn't free. It had a price, and he was just beginning to understand the cost.
Time to be more careful.
And time to start planning for when they inevitably came for him.
