The Marvel Prophet: I Publish Marvel Comics

S.H.I.E.L.D. intelligence quickly picked up reports of the four agents running naked through New York, and the incident soon landed on Nick Fury's desk.

Director Nick Fury's face was grim as he read the report. Mission failures were an unfortunate reality of their line of work, but this was an entirely new level of embarrassment.

S.H.I.E.L.D. agents stripped naked and running through the streets!

What's worse, their equipment had been seized by the target. If word of this got out, the consequences would be dire.

"Our intel was wrong. The target isn't just some cartoonist," Coulson said, his voice grave.

Nick Fury nodded. "Anyone who can take down four agents and make a top-secret file into a comic is far from ordinary. We underestimated him. Although the mission was a failure, we now know this cartoonist, Jason Walker, is formidable—at least on par with our top agents."

"I'm going to lead the next team myself," Coulson declared.

Nick shook his head. "No need. I already dispatched Black Widow. We'll wait for her to bring him in."

Coulson sighed, conceding the point. Black Widow was indeed the best for this kind of operation. Natasha Romanoff was a force of nature—a nightmare for anyone who crossed her path. With her on the case, success was almost guaranteed.

No matter how powerful Walker was, he wouldn't be a match for Black Widow.

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Late at night, I lay in bed, my body sinking into the mattress as I drifted toward sleep. The room was dark and quiet, the only sound the faint hum of the city outside.

But then, a jolt of awareness shot through me. I opened my eyes, every sense heightened. There was movement in the house—stealthy, almost imperceptible, but there.

I stayed still, pretending to sleep, my muscles coiled and ready. My enhanced senses, a gift of the super-soldier serum, picked up the faintest rustle of fabric and the nearly silent creak of a window opening.

A shadow slipped into the room, moving with lethal grace. The intruder made their way toward the bed, unaware that I was fully alert.

As the figure loomed over me, I moved. In a flash, I grabbed their wrist, pulling them down and launching myself up. The intruder stumbled, clearly not expecting resistance, and nearly fell onto the bed.

I flipped the bedside lamp on, casting a harsh light over the scene. Standing before me was a stunning redhead in a black leather outfit that accentuated her curves. Natasha Romanoff—Black Widow.

"I don't recall ordering any special services," I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm as I stood there in my loose pajamas.

She twisted her wrist, clearly in pain from my grip, and perched herself on the edge of my bed. Her eyes, however, were ice cold. This was no social visit.

"You've got some moves," she admitted, a sneer curling her lips. "I didn't expect you to be awake. Or this good."

For a brief moment, her face softened, almost admiring. But then her expression hardened, a professional mask falling into place.

Before I could react, she sprang to her feet and aimed a vicious karate chop at my neck, intending to knock me out cold.

I blocked her strike, our arms colliding with a force that reverberated through the room. Her eyes widened slightly—she hadn't expected me to counter so effectively.

"Impressive," I said, pushing her back. "But if you think I'm going down without a fight, you're mistaken."

We squared off, the tension in the room crackling like electricity. Natasha was a legend, her skills and reputation well-earned. But I had my own edge—the enhancements coursing through my veins made me a formidable opponent.

She lunged at me again, her movements a blur of precision and speed. I parried her strikes, our limbs moving in a deadly dance. Her punches were fast and relentless, but I matched her blow for blow.

With a swift kick, I knocked her off balance. She recovered quickly, rolling to her feet and launching a roundhouse kick aimed at my head. I ducked, feeling the air whoosh past my ear, and countered with a jab that grazed her ribs.

Natasha's eyes narrowed, and she smiled—a fierce, predatory smile. This was more than just a mission for her now; it was a challenge.

She feinted to the left and then struck from the right, her fist aiming for my jaw. I sidestepped, grabbing her wrist and twisting, forcing her to the ground. She writhed, trying to break free, but I held firm.

"Enough!" I growled, pinning her down. "Who sent you? What do you want?"

She glared up at me, defiance blazing in her eyes. "You know who sent me. S.H.I.E.L.D. wants answers, and they're not going to stop until they get them."

I tightened my grip, leaning closer. "Tell Fury he's going to have to do better than this. I'm not just some cartoonist."

Natasha smirked, a glint of respect in her gaze. "Believe me, we know that now. But this isn't over."

With a sudden twist, she slipped out of my grasp and sprang to her feet, her movements fluid and controlled. We stood facing each other, both breathing heavily.

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