MARVEL: THOSE YEARS I WAS UNDERCOVER IN S.H.I.E.LD

For a ten-year-old child, surviving alone in a foreign country was already an incredibly difficult challenge.

Not to mention, like Grimclaw, he wasn't just surviving—he was infiltrating, embedding himself as the spear hidden within the shield.

The hardships he endured over these twelve years were unimaginable.

But precisely because of this, S.H.I.E.L.D. would never suspect one of its own, someone it had raised and trained from the ground up.

Unlike other operatives who were discovered and sent back, Grimclaw had cemented his place within the organization.

For this reason, DeathStrike had no alternative.

Grimclaw wasn't his biological son, but he had raised him from infancy until he was ten years old.

DeathStrike had never married, never had children of his own—Grimclaw, that helpless baby he had once cradled in his arms, had become his child in every way that mattered.

So when the time came for him to personally send Grimclaw away, it had torn him apart. He had kept the pain to himself, swallowing the emotions that no one else could ever understand.

But there was no choice.

And now, countless nights later, when sleep refused to come, he often found himself thinking of that sharp-witted, mature child—his child—who had been forced to grow up too soon.

Dragons do not hesitate. If the children of others can suffer, struggle, and sacrifice for the cause, then what right does his own have to sit back and enjoy the fruits of their labor?

Now, watching the video call, seeing Grimclaw standing there, more confident, more refined, more like a man than ever—DeathStrike felt a sense of relief wash over him.

"DeathStrike Uncle, the blueprint I just sent you is a schematic for a powered exosuit. It holds incredible potential, both for military applications and scientific advancement."

"Of course, just a blueprint alone isn't enough. I'll find a way to get my hands on the core computing program that runs the armor."

"As for the power source, that will depend on the Spear. I can't exactly steal Tony Stark's Arc Reactor myself."

Grimclaw smiled slightly at the screen, his expression both casual and calculated.

"Oh, and the second thing—I'm now the acting Director of the New York S.H.I.E.L.D. branch."

"And it seems like Nick Fury is grooming me to be his successor. This position in New York is meant as a proving ground."

"What?!"

DeathStrike froze, his mind blanking for a moment.

The schematics Grimclaw had sent—he hadn't even processed them yet.

He knew Grimclaw would never send him something useless. But at this moment, all of that faded into the background.

Nick Fury. His undercover operative was now being trained to take over S.H.I.E.L.D.?

Had he heard wrong? Or had Nick Fury lost his damn mind?

The agent they had embedded—who had spent years lying low, infiltrating, gaining trust—was now set to become the head of the organization he was supposed to spy on?

The saying went, "Three years undercover, another three, and another three more—before you know it, the spy is the boss."

But to actually witness it happening?

DeathStrike was in complete disbelief.

And yet, when he took a step back and looked at the bigger picture—Nick Fury's future replacement was a child he himself had once sent away…

His emotions became too tangled to even describe.

He had known Fury valued Grimclaw, but he had never imagined this much—enough to consider him the future of S.H.I.E.L.D..

…Good lord.

After holding back for a long time, DeathStrike finally managed to say something, his voice laced with mixed emotions.

"It seems Nick Fury has a good eye."

"Yeah," Grimclaw chuckled. "I didn't expect him to trust me this much either. But it makes sense. In his eyes, I'm one of his own men, someone he personally shaped and mentored."

"He was the one who guided me into S.H.I.E.L.D.—so as far as he's concerned, I'm his protégé, his creation."

Hearing this, DeathStrike sighed.

"Grimclaw, no matter what, I respect your decision."

After a long pause, DeathStrike looked at Grimclaw, his expression serious.

"If you choose to keep playing the long game, then follow your instincts. Do what you need to do."

"But if one day, you ever feel exhausted—if the weight of this all becomes too much—know that you can always come home. Twelve years… You've done more than enough for the Spear and the Dragon. You've suffered enough."

"Think carefully. This is the most important decision of your life. You understand, don't you?"

"If you choose to continue down this path… with the level of trust and investment Nick Fury has in you right now…"

"…Then your way home will keep slipping further and further away. Maybe even for the rest of your life, you won't be able to return at all."

He exhaled heavily, his usual stoic demeanor briefly cracking.

At this moment, DeathStrike felt a deep conflict within himself.

On one hand, he longed for the child he had raised to come home.

On the other, he realized just how powerful Grimclaw had become. The Director of S.H.I.E.L.D.—what did that mean for the Spear?

Was this the ultimate victory? Or the ultimate loss?

"…Has it been difficult?"

DeathStrike's voice softened, his gaze lingering on Grimclaw's face—on the faint lines of exhaustion around his sharp, confident eyes.

For a moment, there was silence.

Then Grimclaw grinned.

"If I turn back now, then everything I've endured so far would have been for nothing."

"As much as I want to go home… I can't just walk away now."

—

The video call ended.

Grimclaw placed his PDA down on the sleek, polished desk.

He rose from his seat, stepping toward the massive floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the glowing cityscape of New York at night.

A glass of red wine rested in his hand.

He gazed out at the world below, the lights of the city stretching endlessly into the horizon.

And slowly, a smile formed on his lips.

One day, he would go home.

But not yet.

S.H.I.E.L.D., S.W.O.R.D., the Moon Base, the World Security Council…

So many secrets yet to be unraveled.

He lifted the glass and drank deeply, his mind already calculating the next move.

Now…

It was only a matter of time before the curtain rose.

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