New York, St.
John’s Parochial School.
The school was located on the western side of the famous island of Manhattan, adjacent to the Hudson River, in an area commonly known as Hell’s Kitchen.
Although Manhattan’s prosperity was well known, the neighborhood’s name alone was enough to suggest that Hell’s Kitchen was not the best place to live.
Crossing the narrow street, pushing open the rusty iron gate, and taking in the peeling plaster walls and aging furniture inside, everything before the eye made it clear that, despite its prestigious-sounding name, this parochial school did not even rank among the top one hundred schools in the area, let alone the nation.
Against the backdrop of its run-down surroundings, the school’s only redeeming feature was its relatively affordable tuition.
Of course, there was a trade-off.
The fees were low, but the curriculum included numerous theology classes, whether students liked them or not.
“You will be secure and fearless; you will forget your suffering.
You will be brighter than noon; even if there is darkness, it will still be like the morning.
Amen.” The elderly teacher concluded the day’s lesson in the same unwavering tone he had used for decades.
The students immediately rose to their feet and replied in long, rhythmic, drawn-out voices.
“Amen…” Only after the old teacher pushed open the door and left did the small classroom regain its vitality.
Gentle sunlight streamed through the gaps in the windows as students gathered in small groups, chatting about all kinds of topics.
Whether intentionally or not, they left the southeast corner of the classroom isolated.
It remained quiet, forming a stark contrast with the lively atmosphere around it.
Scattered rays of sunlight fell across her flaxen hair.
She had a high nose bridge, and her mixed Chinese and Western heritage gave her features striking definition.
Most captivating of all were her large, slightly upturned eyes, whose faint amber irises naturally evoked words like wild and proud.
“Skye!
Let’s go eat!” Amid a sea of cold stares, only one energetic classmate greeted her warmly.
The mixed-race beauty sighed helplessly.
“I’ve already told you three times.
The name Skye was only used to deal with those foster families applying for government subsidies.
I’m going back to my real name now—Daisy Johnson.
Got it?
Say it.” Accustomed to being pushed around by her, the girl timidly repeated the name twice before Daisy finally let her off.
Daisy quickly left the classroom.
She needed to use the library’s internet connection to look up some information.
Going from being a struggling writer to becoming a young woman sitting silently in the corner of a classroom, mechanically singing hymns every day—the mental adjustment had taken an entire week before she finally accepted reality.
She remembered organizing a massive collection of American comic book reference materials.
Feeling dizzy, she had lain down for a nap, only to wake up here.
There was so much to adapt to—clothing, sleeping habits, language, food.
Everything required adjustment.
Fortunately, the other students had been deliberately isolating her, so even when she behaved oddly, no one paid much attention.
The three essential questions after transmigration—time, place, and identity—had all been answered.
The time was July 2006, and the location was naturally New York.
Although it was somewhat awkward for a man to become a woman, at least she hadn’t turned into a lizard or a tree, nor had she been transported to ancient times.
All things considered, the outcome was acceptable.
The only problem was that this world was different.
This was a world where Captain America existed.
Where Stark Industries existed.
This was the Marvel Universe.
The question of identity had taken longer to investigate.
There was an old saying: thirty percent is destiny, seventy percent is hard work, and the remaining ninety percent comes from your parents.
Absurd as the math was, the saying felt especially true in the Marvel Universe.
For most people, having the right background and bloodline mattered more than anything else.
As a former struggling comic book writer who had thoroughly studied countless Marvel references before dying, she had entered this world with all of those memories intact.
From the very first moment after transmigration, she realized that this body might possess a superpowered bloodline.
Daisy Johnson.
Codename: Quake.
Those memories were crystal clear.
But was the body she had transmigrated into truly that Daisy?
She spent three full days verifying every available record before finally confirming the truth.
She really was Daisy Johnson.
Luck had smiled upon her.
She discovered an old note, several years old, with her full name—Daisy Johnson—clearly written on it.
The previous owner had always disliked that name, however, and had jokingly called herself Skye instead, never even using a surname.
Real name: Daisy.
Former name: Skye.
Mixed-race.
Although both of this body’s parents were still alive, her legal status was listed as orphan.
After comparing every piece of available evidence, there was no longer any doubt.
She truly was Quake.
In the dangerous Marvel Universe, possessing superpowers and lacking them were two entirely different concepts.
However, her powers would not awaken through age or emotional stress.
They required an alien technological catalyst capable of activating that dormant portion of her genetic code.
Her bloodline originated from the Kree Empire, one of the universe’s three great empires.
During ancient wars, the Kree had needed vast numbers of expendable soldiers, so they used genetic engineering to modify part of Earth’s population as a source of troops.
Eventually, those modified humans broke free from Kree control and became known as the Inhumans.
Daisy’s bloodline came from them.
Ordinarily, they were no different from normal humans.
Only after exposure to something known as a Terrigen Crystal could they awaken their superpowers.
The crystals were produced in Attilan, the hidden city of the Inhumans, located deep beneath the surface of the Moon’s far side.
Go to the Moon?
For Daisy, whose entire savings amounted to only fifteen hundred dollars, that was simply impossible.
If she could casually travel to the Moon, why would she need the crystal—or superpowers—in the first place?
Fortunately, there was always another way.
One Terrigen Crystal had been left behind on Earth, where it eventually came into S.H.I.E.L.D.’s possession.
Between traveling to the Moon and infiltrating S.H.I.E.L.D., the latter seemed considerably more achievable.
Living in a dangerous world, she needed power.
For that reason, she suppressed her fear and began planning an operation.
Aside from a stun gun for self-defense, the previous owner had left behind no combat skills whatsoever.
Her hacking abilities, however, were exceptional.
She had compromised numerous zombie computers and servers, and Daisy inherited those skills completely.
At the moment, they were the only tools available to her.
Three days later, everything was ready.
She logged into the compromised machines and established multiple layers of digital cover.
Only then did she place the call.
Her target was Jasper Sitwell.
The bald Indian American man with glasses publicly worked for the United Nations.
In reality, he served as a supervisor in S.H.I.E.L.D.’s administrative division, specifically overseeing recruitment.
His deepest secret, however, was that he was also a mid-level operative within HYDRA.
The Terrigen Crystal Daisy needed was stored inside a secure S.H.I.E.L.D.
warehouse.
This bald Indian American man would become a crucial piece of her plan.
For a hacker of her caliber, obtaining his private phone number had not been difficult.
Daisy mentally reviewed every step one final time before confirming that nothing had been overlooked.
She opened her second-hand laptop, tracked Sitwell’s phone to determine his location, and waited until he entered a public area.
She then hacked into several nearby security cameras, positioning them to monitor him from multiple angles.
Only then did she place the call.
On the screen, Sitwell looked slightly puzzled.
Very few people knew his private number, and he did not recognize the incoming caller.
He cautiously scanned his surroundings, hesitated briefly, and finally answered.
Daisy activated the voice changer she had prepared beforehand, transforming her voice into that of a middle-aged man with a deep tone.
“Agent Sitwell, Mr.
Whitehall requires your assistance with something.” She got straight to the point.