"Why are we heading to Hell's Kitchen at this hour? That place is filled with nothing but garbage, scum, and criminals. Even the air reeks of marijuana."
A sleek black Lexus slowed down, its turn signal flashing as it turned onto a side road.
The speaker was a young man with curly black hair, seated in the passenger seat. Of mixed Mexican and Canadian descent, he had just been promoted to a Level 5 S.H.I.E.L.D. agent and was clearly excited. Like a curious child, he fired questions at the driver.
"Kelly, sometimes we have to handle tasks that may seem trivial to others," the driver responded calmly. "Like today. Just because the surveillance cameras couldn't capture a clear image of the hotel entrance, we were sent to investigate."
With kind eyes, a gentle tone, and soft facial features, the man speaking was none other than S.H.I.E.L.D.'s most likable agent—Level 8 Agent Phil Coulson. His neatly trimmed short blond hair and ever-present composure made him a favorite among his peers.
Beside him sat Agent Carey Simmons, an energetic young recruit who had just been transferred to the field team.
Hearing Coulson's explanation, Simmons widened his eyes in disbelief. "Wait… so we're being sent because a camera didn't get a clear shot of a hotel door? What if the camera was just broken? Isn't this a waste of taxpayers' money?"
"Well, you could look at it another way," Coulson said with a smile. "We need to make sure taxpayers see that we're not just sitting around doing nothing."
He glanced briefly at his companion before adding, "Of course, if it weren't for what happened this morning, we probably could've delayed this investigation."
"This morning? What happened?" Simmons asked, his curiosity piqued.
"Oh, nothing major." Coulson's tone remained casual. "A group from the Wolf Gang went to the police station to report a missing persons case. Apparently, they sent some of their men to the Mulgore Hotel last night to collect protection money. But once they walked in… they never walked out."
Simmons' jaw dropped. After a moment, he stammered, "Hold on. Since when do we handle missing persons cases? And since when do gangsters report crimes to the police?"
"If you knew that, over the past month, thirteen different groups of gang members—along with more than a dozen thieves and criminals—have disappeared in that hotel, you wouldn't be asking that."
Simmons blinked in shock, his enthusiasm dimming. After an awkward pause, he muttered, "Sorry, Phil. I didn't know…"
"Don't worry about it." Coulson waved it off.
"As for your question about why gangsters are calling the cops… It was a new gang, only four guys in total. The one who called was starving because he missed last night's 'business operations.'"
Coulson tapped the brakes lightly, guiding the car onto the dimly lit street before finally coming to a stop.
"We're here."
As soon as they stepped out of the car, the two agents got their first good look at the Mulgore Hotel. And, as if guided by an unseen force, they both seemed to absorb a brief history of the place.
"The Mulgore Hotel has long been part of Hell's Kitchen. However, after the previous owner died of a heart attack, it remained closed for years—until last month, when a new owner of unknown background took over and reopened it."
Simmons, still brimming with curiosity, examined the hotel's old-fashioned design. "Who was the previous owner? And why did he build the hotel like this?"
"No idea. Maybe the guy was long gone before I was even born." Coulson handed over a file. "You've got ten seconds."
Simmons quickly skimmed the document. "Cous Bradford, male, 22 years old… and that's it?"
"Yep, that's all." Coulson smirked. "That's what makes this interesting. His identity papers are real, but his past is a complete blank. What does that tell you?"
Simmons' excitement flared again. He instinctively gripped the cold metal handle of his gun as he replied, "It means he's a top-tier hacker. He must've infiltrated government databases—tax records, civil affairs, health departments—to create a fake identity from scratch. That suggests he has some serious backing—"
"Ah, no, it's not that complicated," Coulson interrupted with a chuckle.
He casually tossed the file back into the car and pressed the lock button. "Maybe he was just some drifter who only realized last year that he needed a passport and social security card."
Simmons stopped in his tracks. After a moment of silence, he hurried to catch up. "Then why did you say it was suspicious?"
Seeing Simmons' increasing confusion, Coulson patiently explained, "Anyone who exists in society leaves a trail. If someone's records are completely blank, then that absence itself has value. And that value determines how we handle them."
"Which brings us here."
Simmons still looked puzzled, but before he could ask another question, Coulson changed the topic.
"In 1790, special police officers conducted population censuses on horseback. By 1880, the first professional census takers emerged. In 1990, we introduced Geographic Information Systems. In 2000, the Census Bureau hired 860,000 temporary workers to survey households." Coulson paused before asking, "Do you know why we say the U.S. population is 'about 310 million'?"
"Because of rounding?"
"No," Coulson said, smiling. "Because even with all our advancements, we can only ever account for about 90% of the population. That leaves at least 20 million people who live off the grid—people with no official records."
Before Simmons could respond, Coulson was already stepping through the hotel entrance.
"Welcome..."
Behind the counter, a weary-looking young man looked up. His name was Cous Bradford. After a month of relative peace, he had started feeling like a normal person again—though his mental exhaustion still lingered.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Bradford! We're agents of the Homeland Strategic Defense Attack and Logistics Support Agency. I'm Phil Coulson, and this is Carey Simmons."
Cous blinked. This was his first time meeting Coulson. He noted the agent's friendly demeanor but also recognized the sharp intelligence behind his eyes. Meanwhile, Coulson silently observed Cous—his youth, his weary expression, and the subtle air of detachment.
Rubbing his temples, Cous let out a sigh. "That was fast. I thought I had at least a few months of peace before S.H.I.E.L.D. came knocking."
Still, he forced himself to perk up and shook Coulson's hand. "Just call me Cous. Nice to meet you, Agent Coulson."
The agents took a seat at the counter. After a brief pause, Cous poured Coulson a glass of Morning Dew liquor. Glancing at Simmons, he handed him a cheap juice instead.
"Sorry, no coffee—just these."
Coulson took a sip and raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Oh, now this is something special."
"Mulgore's liquor is the best," Cous said confidently.
After a moment of casual conversation, Coulson pulled out a few photos and placed them on the counter.
"We're here because of these people. They—"
"I used them as sacrifices," Cous interrupted, taking a sip of his drink.
Simmons stiffened, his hand inching toward his weapon.
Cous leaned back, his expression amused. "They barged into my hotel, pointed a gun at me, and tried to rob me of my last seven dollars and thirty-five cents. They also demanded a monthly protection fee."
"According to the Castle Doctrine, I had no duty to retreat. I had every legal right to defend myself—including the use of lethal force."
Coulson remained unfazed. "Relax, Cous. And Simmons, put your hand down." He turned back to Cous, his voice calm. "We're not here to investigate what happened to them. But the word 'sacrifice'… that caught my interest."
Cous smirked. "Before we discuss that, let me officially welcome you both to the Mulgore Hotel. We've got all evening to talk."
Simmons, still tense, had a strange thought: If he just welcomed us, does that mean he hasn't had a single guest in over a month?