Millennium Bookstore, once a century-old establishment nestled in Brooklyn, New York, had changed hands many times over the years.
Two decades ago, a young couple had bought it, hoping to preserve its legacy.
But seven years ago, they mysteriously vanished without a trace.
A week later, the bookstore was inexplicably transferred to a new owner.
Half of the money from the sale was donated to the Howard Welfare Orphanage, while the other half was placed in a trust under their child's name.
Until the child reached adulthood, only a limited amount could be withdrawn each month.
Fury leaned against the hood of a black S.H.I.E.L.D. vehicle, arms crossed as he spoke. "That child, as you probably guessed, is you." His single eye scrutinized Ethan's reaction.
Ethan held the old photograph in his hand, his fingers brushing lightly over its edges. A mixture of emotions flickered across his face—nostalgia, confusion, maybe even a hint of pain.
He exhaled sharply. "You don't need to explain all this, Fury. I already know more than enough."
Fury nodded. "Fair enough." Without further discussion, he tossed a set of keys to Ethan.
"That's the bookstore key. I figured you'd want to check it out. Coulson can drive you." As if on cue, a knock came from the car window. Coulson stood there, wearing his signature composed smile.
Ethan didn't bother with pleasantries. He pocketed the keys and walked straight to the passenger seat. "Thanks," he muttered.
As the car wove through the city streets, Coulson shot Ethan a sideways glance. "You seem... off. Not quite like the Ethan I know."
Ethan folded his arms and leaned back. "I'm fine. Just taking it all in."
"I get it." Coulson nodded, eyes still on the road. "In Japan, they have a saying: 'mono no aware.' The bittersweet awareness of time passing. I think it applies here."
Ethan smirked faintly. "You watch too much anime, Coulson."
"Guilty." Coulson chuckled. "But that doesn't mean I'm wrong."
The familiar streets of Brooklyn passed by in a blur. Ethan's mind drifted to old memories—running through the alleyways, playing in front of the store, the voices of his parents calling him home.
Yet, as vivid as they were, something felt distant, like watching a scene from an old film. He wasn't that kid anymore.
Coulson finally pulled up in front of the bookstore—a three-story building of brick and aged wood, standing resilient despite the years. The sign above the entrance bore bold, golden letters: "Millennium Bookstore."
Ethan stepped out of the car, staring up at the building. Seven years. He had returned, but everything had changed.
And then—the door creaked open.
His body tensed. That door had been locked for years. No one was supposed to be inside. Yet there it was, swinging open as if welcoming him home.
Ethan's breath hitched. Could it be…?
A figure stepped into the doorway. Long white hair, piercing eyes, and an unmistakable presence.
"Ethan, you're finally back."
It was Storm.
"Professor told me S.H.I.E.L.D. isn't keeping you on lockdown, so I came right over," she said, walking toward him. She reached out and ruffled his hair with a smirk. "You've grown."
Suppressing the lump in his throat, Ethan forced a casual grin. "Didn't expect to see you here, Teach."
"Figured you'd need a hand getting settled." Storm glanced back at the building.
"This place hasn't had a tenant in years. It needs a little… love."
"Wait, 'we'?" Ethan repeated, his instincts kicking in. He looked past her and saw another familiar figure emerge.
Logan.
The Wolverine stood there, cigar in mouth, apron tied around his waist, feather duster in one hand, and a rag in the other. He scowled as their eyes met.
"Before you say anything," Logan grumbled, "she dragged me into this. I'm just the muscle."
Ethan held back a laugh. "Mr. Logan, you... clean?"
"Don't push it, kid." Logan grunted, crossing his arms.
Coulson, still leaning against the car, watched with amused curiosity. "You just walked in?"
Storm shrugged. "What? That old lock wasn't exactly Fort Knox."
"That's not what I meant." Coulson hesitated, looking around. "I mean the surveillance detail assigned to keep an eye on Ethan. You know, the guys stationed around the perimeter?"
Storm smirked. "Oh, them? Taken care of."
"Define 'taken care of.'" Coulson's voice flattened.
As if on cue, Logan kicked over a pile of unconscious S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, their limbs twisted at awkward angles. "They shot first," he muttered.
Coulson pinched the bridge of his nose. "You didn't have to knock them out."
Storm crossed her arms. "They were sneaky. We just taught them a lesson."
Coulson exhaled, his patience wearing thin. "Ms. Munroe, I need you to understand that their presence here is not just surveillance—it's protection.
We did our best to keep Ethan's involvement in the Abomination event under wraps, but rumors spread. He's a target. Those agents are here to make sure nothing happens to him."
Storm's sharp eyes met his. "Then maybe next time, don't send people to spy on him."
Ethan raised a hand. "Uh, quick question?"
Coulson turned to him, weary. "Yes?"
"Since I'm technically a student again… if I'm running late for class, can they give me a ride?"
Coulson stared at him for a long moment, then sighed. "I'll… see what I can do."
"Ethan, don't be late tomorrow. It's Scott's combat training in the morning. You know how strict he is—way less forgiving than me." Storm crossed her arms, giving Ethan a pointed look before stepping towards the door.
"I got it, Ms. Munroe." Ethan waved her off, watching as she and Wolverine made their way outside.
"That's my cue to leave too," Coulson spoke up, rolling his shoulders. His job was simple—drop Ethan off, then get back to work.
If it weren't for Storm and Wolverine sticking around, he'd have left much earlier. Fury was probably kicking back in his office, drinking coffee while making agents run around the globe like headless chickens.
That man had mastered the art of delegation. Coulson let out a sigh, mentally vowing that if he ever became Director of S.H.I.E.L.D., he'd take at least ten days off before pretending to do actual work.
Not that it would ever happen. His last promotion request was still buried under paperwork somewhere.
Shaking off the thought, he climbed into his car and drove off, leaving Ethan alone in front of the house.
Ethan took a deep breath and stepped inside. The house was quiet now. He pulled out the plastic bag filled with takeout boxes, tossed them in the trash, and shut the door behind him.
The evening sun filtered through the dusty windows, casting a warm glow on the wooden floor.
Dust particles floated in the air, barely disturbed by his movement. He inhaled deeply—there it was, that faint scent of old bookshelves and aged wood.
His gaze drifted over the bookshelves on the first floor.
Nothing had changed.
It was like time had frozen in this place, untouched for seven years.
The first floor remained a bookstore, the second floor housed living quarters, and the third was just a storage space.
Thanks to Storm and Logan, the first and second floors were at least livable now.
But the third? That still needed work. Might as well get it all done in one go.
He climbed the stairs, pushing open the door to the third floor with a creak.
The musty air hit him immediately, making him grimace.
"Ugh." He strode to the window, yanked the curtains open, and let fresh air and sunlight flood the space.
As expected, the room was filled with old furniture and rotting bookshelves. More junk than he anticipated.
Cleaning up the dust was one thing, but dealing with all this? A headache.
"Guess I'll just toss everything outside for now and figure it out later," he muttered, rolling up his sleeves.
He moved methodically, lifting and shifting old furniture without much trouble.
But as he was clearing out a corner, something caught his eye—a small wooden drawer table. Unlike the rest of the furniture, this one wasn't covered in dust.
In fact, it looked recently wiped clean.
Someone had touched it.
That thought made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. But he immediately dismissed it.
Even if someone had wiped it, all the dust he'd stirred up should have settled on it by now.
And yet, the surface was pristine.
Frowning, Ethan shifted slightly, and as the sunlight hit the table at just the right angle, he noticed something strange—a faint, shimmering energy surrounding it. The dust in the air avoided it entirely.
"Okay... that's weird."
Focusing his energy, he let his senses tune into the magnetic field around the table. It pulsed faintly, the energy originating from inside.
Cautiously, he pulled open the drawer.
Inside lay a black leather-bound notebook.
Ethan picked it up, brushing his fingers over the cover. Four golden letters gleamed under the light—
[STUDY MANUAL.]
A strange energy radiated from the book, subtle but intricate. Just touching it made his mind feel oddly foggy, as if it were pulling at his consciousness.
After a brief hesitation, he flipped it open.
On the first page, scrawled in elegant handwriting, was a single name.
"Lukas H."
His fingers tensed around the paper. "Dad..."
The moment he spoke, the notebook glowed.
Golden energy pulsed from the pages, spiraling into the air and forming a swirling ring of light. The space inside the ring twisted unnaturally, as if reality itself was being rewritten.
Then, a figure stepped through.
A person in a flowing yellow robe emerged from the other side of the portal, their face obscured.
They scanned the room briefly before locking eyes with Ethan. Beneath the hood, a warm, familiar voice spoke.
"Long time no see, Ethan."
Ethan's breath hitched. He knew that voice.
"It's you," he whispered, eyes wide.
The robed figure nodded, an almost relieved smile in their voice. "Good. You still remember me."
"How could I forget?" His hands clenched into fists. "You were the one who left me at the orphanage seven years ago."
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Word count: 1708