Director Fury’s eye twitched.
He flipped the tablet over, then flipped it back, and tapped on Luke’s name again.
Location signal — — Offline.
Three words, in red, flashing in the center of the screen.
Director Fury put the tablet down.
Picked it up.
Put it down again.
General Ross was watching him from across the table: “What’s wrong?” “Nothing.” Director Fury’s back teeth ground together with a creaking sound.
…
New York subway station.
Luke stood on the platform, turning his left wrist to check his watch.
Exactly six o’clock.
Not a second off.
With a ding in his head, a translucent panel appeared out of thin air before his eyes.
[ Clock-in successful.
] [ Today’s roleplay mission: Completed.
] [ Cumulative progress: + 2% ] [ Rewards being distributed…
] Luke stared at the panel, waiting for the last line of text to appear.
[ Congratulations to the host for obtaining the skill: Sanji · Cooking (Lv.3) ] [ Skill Description: Inherit the culinary talent of Sanji, the sous-chef of the Baratie restaurant in the World of Pirates.
You can intuitively judge the best cooking method for ingredients.
Knife precision increased by 300%, and seasoning sensitivity increased by 500%.
] Luke stared at the panel for three seconds.
Cooking.
Sanji’s cooking.
He closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.
The last time, he was given Sherlock’s violin performance; the time before that, it was Tony Montana’s spoken Spanish…
The system’s logic was very stable.
After successfully roleplaying every day, besides the fixed progress advancement, it would also gift a random skill.
Sounds great.
The problem is, the relationship between these skills and combat power is roughly equal to zero.
Maxed out the life skills tree, but combat power hasn’t budged an inch.
Luke closed the panel and shoved his phone back into his pocket.
Forget it.
Sanji’s cooking—looking at the bright side—at least he can save some money on takeout in the future.
Takeout in New York is both expensive and terrible.
A serving of pasta is twelve dollars, the sauce is canned, and one bite could make an Italian rise from the grave in anger.
Thinking about it that way, it’s a win.
His phone vibrated.
Luke looked down.
Caller ID: Cyclops.
His index finger pressed the red button with precision.
Hung up.
Luke flipped the phone screen-down and shoved it into his pocket, then swiped his card to enter the station.
The subway would arrive in three minutes.
He leaned against a pillar, spacing out while looking at the Broadway musical advertisement posted on the opposite wall.
The phone vibrated again.
Luke didn’t take it out.
The third time.
The fourth time.
The fifth time.
By the sixth time, a black lady waiting for the train nearby couldn’t help but glance at him.
The look was clear — — Young man, is that your girlfriend calling?
Just answer it, stop playing hard to get.
Luke smiled at the lady.
The seventh time.
Fine.
Luke answered.
“Luke — —” “Director Fury.” Luke spoke extremely fast, so fast that the person on the other end couldn’t cut in at all.
“According to the labor contract I signed with S.H.I.E.L.D., Chapter 3, Section 7, working hours are from 9:00 AM to 6:00 PM.
Anything beyond that, according to the relevant regulations of New York State labor law, the employer must pay overtime compensation of no less than 1.5 times the normal hourly wage.
Currently, I have not received any written overtime notice, nor have I seen an overtime subsidy column in my payslip.
So — —” Luke glanced at the lights emerging from the subway tunnel.
“I’m off the clock.
If you have business, talk to me tomorrow morning at nine.” Hung up.
Phone facing down, stuffed back into his pocket.
The subway pulled into the station, and the doors opened.
Luke stepped onto the train, found an empty seat, sat down, and closed his eyes, leaning back against the seat.
Comfortable.
…
On the helicopter.
Director Fury held the phone, listening to the busy signal coming from the receiver.
Beep — — Beep — — Beep — — He took the phone away from his ear and looked at the screen.
Call duration: nine seconds.
Nine seconds.
This kid used nine seconds to recite the New York State labor law to him, and then hung up on him.
Director Fury’s temple twitched twice.
“What’s wrong?” General Ross’s voice came from across the way, carrying a hint of amusement.
Director Fury put the phone back into his pocket, his facial expression returning to that iconic calmness.
“Nothing.” Director Fury turned his head to look out the cabin.
Luke, this kid, is useful.
Fucking useful.
But the problem is, he leaves right on time!
S.H.I.E.L.D.
Fucking S.H.I.E.L.D., the pinnacle of the intelligence World, the last line of defense for global security!
Agents work day and night, on standby at all times, even if they get an order at 3:00 AM, they have to spring out of bed.
But Luke?
Nine-to-five, doesn’t stay a minute longer.
“Doesn’t look like ‘nothing’.” General Ross leaned back against the seat, the corners of his mouth slightly upturned.
“Your people, not very obedient?” Director Fury didn’t take the bait, turning instead to the communications officer.
“Containment team, move in.
Execute Plan B.
Barton is in charge of on-site command.” The communications officer acknowledged and operated accordingly.
Director Fury leaned back into his seat, arms crossed over his chest, his gaze cast toward the darkening skyline outside the porthole.
This operation is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
The Hulk is on the ground, the pocket that has been suppressed for three years has finally caught him, and General Ross has already relaxed his stance.
S.H.I.E.L.D.
Without one little Agent, could it really not keep running?
…
Queens.
Luke stood at the apartment door, carrying two plastic bags, and knocked three times.
The door opened.
Aunt May stood at the door, with a stain of unknown origin on her apron.
Her hair was loosely tied behind her head, a few stray strands hanging by her ears.
She was around forty years old, but her figure was kept in excellent shape.
When she smiled, fine lines appeared at the corners of her eyes, which actually added a bit of charm.
“Su!
You’re here!” “Aunt May, I promised to help you cook.
I, Luke, keep my word.” Luke raised the bags in his hands and shook them twice.
Aunt May stepped aside to let him in, and Luke stepped into the living room in his slippers.
This apartment wasn’t big.
A school uniform jacket was tossed on the sofa, an open chemistry textbook lay on the coffee table, and a burnt smell wafted from the kitchen.
Luke peeked into the kitchen.
There was a lump of black object in the pot.
The shape was indescribable.
“That…” Aunt May followed behind, her voice sounding a bit guilty, “I originally wanted to make pasta.” “Hmm.” “Then I went to answer a phone call.” “Hmm.” “When I came back, it was like this.” Luke looked at that lump of stuff in the pot and was silent for two seconds.
Sanji’s cooking skill buzzed in his mind, and his brain automatically analyzed the past and present of this object.
Overheated olive oil, pasta boiled into a paste, and peanut butter that was added for some unknown reason.
Three ingredients, three ways to die.
Fine, life skills are still useful.
“Aunt May,” Luke placed the plastic bags on the stove and started taking things out, “From now on, leave the cooking to me.
You just have to be responsible for eating.” Aunt May leaned against the kitchen doorframe, arms crossed over her chest.
“You, a big boy, know how to cook?” Three minutes later.
The overflowing aroma filled the entire kitchen.
Aunt May stood at the door, smelling the aroma, and blinked.
“You…
have you worked in a restaurant before?” “No.” Luke sorted the ingredients into three bowls, turned on the heat, added oil to the pan, and the temperature was just right.
“Talent.” There was a reason he was helping to cook.
Aunt May is a good neighbor, the spider kid is a potential stock, and maintaining a good neighborhood relationship is his basic strategy for living in Queens.
Nothing more than that.
Aunt May walked over to his side and reached out to help him take out the vegetables.
When she bent over, the neckline of her cardigan slipped down slightly.
Luke’s gaze hit that curve and immediately snapped away.
Like being electrocuted.
Helping.
Right, helping to cook.
Cooking.