It hadn't been long when James Wesley—still looking like a finance-world mid-boss with a leather briefcase and the permanent scowl of someone who just lost a stock tip—pushed open the door. He yanked off his tie like it had personally offended him, grabbed a beer from the fridge, and poured it with the gentleness of a riot cop.
He strode to his desk, cracked open a folder, and had just started reading when something caught his eye.
A person. Sitting. Next to him.
"Who?!" he yelped, immediately going for the drawer where his little friend—the gun—lived.
Before he could touch it, the desk exploded.
A shockwave, elegant and violent, cracked the oak like it owed Daisy money. She stepped out from the shadows, calm as a cat in a sunbeam.
"Mr. Wesley, long time no see."
Wesley blinked. At first, she looked unfamiliar—but something clicked. His eyes darted to the desk ruins, then back to her. "It's you. Are you... a mutant?"
Daisy smirked. "Nope. Just your friendly neighborhood superpowered civilian. Like I told you last time, Mr. Wesley, you're talented. Wasting that talent working for gangs? What a shame."
Wesley gave her a look like she'd just offered him a job selling time-shares. Classic 'you don't know what you're talking about' sneer. He'd seen this before—young hotshots who thought powers made them unstoppable.
Daisy saw right through him. "You think I'm some arrogant newbie, sure. But I think it's you who's misreading the board. Mr. Fisk... your pal who's been tanning in Spain lately?"
"How do you know that?" he snapped.
She wasn't about to drop the 'I read the script' line. Instead, she stayed cryptic. "Mr. Fisk is loyal. He'd move heaven and earth for you. And you'd kill for him. But he's gone. New York's under the NYPD's microscope, and Fisk's lying low. Question is... are you planning to retire in a Spanish vineyard too?"
A rhetorical question. If Wesley had wanted to leave, he'd have been gone. He craved the attention, the power, the subtle awe in people's eyes when he walked into a room. Small-town obscurity was not on the menu.
"You gonna wait here for years, hoping Fisk returns? Or do you want to make something of yourself while you're still relevant?"
"I don't trust you."
"Smart," Daisy said brightly. "But not enough. You've seen what I can do. Unless you've got a death wish, your best bet is standing beside me."
Wesley's eyes narrowed. "You threaten me, then expect me to sign up?"
Daisy leaned forward and, without touching him, gave his heart a little psychic squeeze. Wesley turned red, gasping, clutching at his chest like he'd swallowed a lawnmower.
She released him before he passed out. "That wasn't a threat. That was a hello."
Wesley straightened up, still wheezing. "You're insane."
"Maybe. But I'm not asking you to betray Fisk. I'm asking you to do legal work for me while he's away. Clean business. Suits and spreadsheets."
"Fisk hates psychics." Wesley popped off his glasses, his heartbeat still in overtime.
"That's because Fisk doesn't have powers," Daisy shrugged. "Trust me, if he did, he'd be throwing mutant dinner parties."
Wesley looked down, silent. Truth was, he didn't hate powers. He envied them. Who wouldn't want to lift a car or crack a safe with a blink?
"I have conditions."
"Hit me."
"One: I don't betray Mr. Fisk."
"My work's legit. No betrayals required."
"Two: I'm a collaborator, not an underling."
"You're the Gordon to my Batman. Deal."
"Three: The moment Fisk returns, I'm gone."
Daisy gave a half-smile. "Fine. But a lot can change in a few years."
She had a point. Vanity and ambition were Wesley's true compass. And if the spotlight got bright enough, loyalty might just... fade.
"Great. Now let's talk tasks."
She launched into her pitch about big data—how it wasn't rocket science, more like weaponized Excel. Wesley, with his Ivy League polish and sharp mind, caught on fast. He saw the potential. It wasn't just flashy—it was genius. Much more interesting than demolition and blackmail.
"This stuff's only useful to big players," he noted.
"Exactly," Daisy said. "Your job? Talk to the suits. The CEOs. The government guys. You've got the polish. Use it."
He was halfway in—until he heard how broke the company was. A few thousand dollars in the account? His enthusiasm took a nosedive.
"That's why I need you to open doors," she said, unfazed.
Wesley raised an eyebrow. "What if those doors don't open politely? You expecting me to break them down?"
Daisy gave him a look. "Mr. Wesley, you're not the only one who's made threats. But this country's not lawless. If the government really wanted to shut people like me down, they'd just send a few elite agents and be done with it."
She checked her watch, pulled out a piece of paper. "Anyway. If you're still in tomorrow, meet me here. If not—well, I'll come looking for you."
As she left, she gave a playful little psychic tap to his chest. Not enough to hurt—just enough to remind.
Probability of cooperation: 70%.
She felt his emotional waveform. He started angry, turned anxious, then settled into reluctant curiosity. A promising arc.
She hopped into her trusty second-hand Ford. Just started the engine when—bam—the passenger door flew open.
In slid a tall man, trench coat sweeping, left eye hidden by an ominous patch, presence darker than a Netflix drama.
Nick Fury. Director of SHIELD. Professional buzzkill. The one-eyed pirate himself.
She blinked. "Who are you?"
He raised an eyebrow. "We need to talk."