As the transformation completed, Orion's body radiated an ominous purple aura, shimmering like the spectral form of a mantis—sharp, deadly, and undeniably powerful. The air around him vibrated with energy, crackling like an unspoken threat. He flexed his fingers, feeling the surge of raw strength coursing through his veins. His skin felt like armor, his senses like finely tuned instruments.

"Alright," he muttered, rolling his shoulders. "Not bad. Not bad at all."

But as the rush of power settled in, a nagging thought crept up, tapping on the back of his mind like an unwelcome guest. This wasn’t his first time flirting with the Void Reaver. The last encounter had been… messy. Sure, it made him stronger—practically unstoppable—but it came with a cost: a ravenous, unrelenting hunger for destruction. The kind of hunger that didn’t just whisper in your ear but screamed until you gave in.

Orion took a deep breath, shutting the thought down. ‘Not today, Void Reaver. Not today.’ He pivoted toward a safer option—boring, gritty, unglamorous iron and steel. He absorbed it in bulk, grimacing at the metallic tang that accompanied the process. It wasn’t pleasant, but it was effective.

A notification pinged in his mind like a smug text message: [Void Skin has successfully evolved to Level 26. Required energy for the next level: One Million.]

"Yeah, yeah," Orion grumbled, waving it away. "You don’t have to rub it in."

Slipping into his training suit, he got to work. High-speed jumps, devastating strikes, and rapid maneuvers filled the training room. Every move was calculated, precise, and relentless. He couldn’t afford mistakes; not with powers like his. One slip-up, and someone—or something—would pay the price. His daily routine was grueling, with only short breaks every two days to recharge. For Orion, this wasn’t just about training. It was about control.

Meanwhile, Nick Fury was at his desk, battling a headache that felt more personal than professional. He rubbed his temples as if it might massage the stress away. Spoiler: It didn’t. The upcoming meeting with the so-called *God of Death* loomed over him like a bad omen.

"Twenty million dollars," Fury muttered under his breath. "For a meeting. A meeting. This better be worth it."

Phil Coulson stood nearby, ever the dependable agent, exuding calm professionalism. But even he couldn’t hide his curiosity. "So, uh, sir," Coulson ventured, "how many of us are going to this… negotiation? And do we even know if this ‘God of Death’ is, you know, a ‘he’?"

Fury shot him a flat look. "You. Me. That’s it. And no, we don’t know if it’s a ‘he.’ Frankly, I don’t care if it’s a ‘he,’ ‘she,’ or a ‘they.’ As long as we get what we need."

Coulson nodded, though his brow furrowed slightly. "And if this goes sideways? What’s the contingency?"

"It won’t," Fury said, his tone sharp enough to cut glass. "But if it does, we adapt. That’s what we do."

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The stakes were high. Fury wasn’t thrilled about the cost, but the potential payoff was too tempting to ignore. If this God of Death turned out to be as powerful as the rumors suggested, it will be a game-changer.

Across town, Natasha Romanoff was knee-deep in her own frustration. Her assignment? Orion Voss. Her progress? Virtually nonexistent. For weeks, she’d been trying to get close to the enigmatic young billionaire, but he was as elusive as a shadow in a hurricane.

Voss’s story was a cocktail of mystery and improbability. Orphaned at a young age, he’d defied all odds. At 19, he’d won a $10 million lottery jackpot and turned it into a $4 billion empire within three years. Real estate, tech investments, stock market—whatever Voss touched seemed to turn to gold.

But something didn’t sit right. His uncanny knack for predicting the market was suspicious. His odd eating habits—seriously, who absorbs iron?—were weirder still. And despite his wealth, he lived a strangely solitary life, shunning housekeepers and secretaries in favor of privacy.

For Natasha, the lack of evidence made her job a nightmare. Voss hadn’t committed any crimes, at least none that she could prove, and SHIELD didn’t need an FBI turf war. All she could do was tail him, hoping for a slip-up. So far, he’d been frustratingly perfect at staying ahead of her.

Fury wasn’t blind to her struggles. Watching her chase Voss was like watching a cat try to catch a laser pointer. Amusing, but ultimately unproductive.

"Coulson," Fury said, leaning back in his chair, "Natasha needs a break. She’s running on fumes, and I need her sharp for the meeting with the God of Death."

Coulson tilted his head thoughtfully. "You think she’ll go for it? She’s pretty invested in Voss."

"She doesn’t have a choice," Fury said, already typing out a message. "I’ll tell her to stand down, take a day off, and join us in Washington. Voss isn’t going anywhere, and we’ve got bigger fish to fry."

Coulson nodded. "Understood, sir. I’ll handle the logistics."

As Fury sent the message, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the pieces were finally coming together. Voss, the God of Death, the Avengers initiative—it was all part of a larger puzzle. And if Fury had his way, SHIELD would be the ones holding all the pieces.

________________

Natasha Romanoff shut the door of her temporary apartment behind her with the kind of exhaustion that came from eight straight hours of pretending she cared about customers’ complaints. She kicked off her shoes—one landing near the couch, the other disappearing into the abyss beneath the coffee table—and flopped onto the cushions.

The TV murmured in the background, cycling through the usual doom-filled headlines, but Natasha barely noticed. Her mind was elsewhere, stuck on Orion Voss. Two weeks of pounding the pavement, playing undercover waitress, and not so much as a glimpse of the guy. It was like he knew she was looking for him and was purposefully staying out of sight. Annoyingly mysterious types tended to do that.

She sighed, running a hand through her hair as she mulled over her next move. Sneaking into his supposed hideout and striking up a conversation wasn’t exactly the stealthiest plan, but desperate times called for bold stupidity.

It wasn’t like she hadn’t hoped for something easier—a flashy gala or a cocktail party full of champagne glasses, overpriced hors d'oeuvres, and Orion surrounded by high society types with too much money and not enough sense. That kind of setup would’ve been perfect: blend in, flash a smile, slip a witty remark into the conversation, and boom—mission accomplished. But no. Mr. Orion Voss wasn’t playing along.

With another deep sigh, she pushed those thoughts aside. Fury wanted to meet her tomorrow, and knowing him, it was either to talk business or chew her out for not catching Orion yet. Either way, she wasn’t dealing with it tonight. Sleep first. Everything else could wait.