Mulagore hotel in marvel

Resonating with the elements?"

"Phil, are you serious?"

It was the weekend, and in the conference room on the 22nd floor of S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, a dozen agents sat casually with their legs crossed. As Phil Coulson finished his opening remarks at the podium, murmurs quickly spread through the sealed room.

The agents gathered here were among S.H.I.E.L.D.'s most elite—those Nick Fury considered the most trustworthy. After receiving an urgent summons, they had rushed back to headquarters. Among them was Clint Barton, also known as "Hawkeye," the world's best archer.

Leaning against a row of chairs with his arms spread out, Barton—a striking middle-aged man with short blond hair and a sharp, serious gaze—glanced over at Natasha Romanoff, the "Black Widow." His expression was skeptical.

"Natasha, do you think Phil is messing with us?"

The red-haired spy smirked slightly. "Phil doesn't lie, but even I find this hard to believe."

Hawkeye nodded in agreement. "Exactly. If he doesn't provide solid proof, this whole briefing is pointless—wait, what the—"

Before he could finish his sentence, flames suddenly flickered in Phil Coulson's hand. With a soft whoosh, the fire momentarily licked his hair, singing a few strands.

The entire room erupted into chaos.

Coulson hastily patted out the embers and cleared his throat, looking slightly embarrassed. "Apologies. My control over the elements is still rough, but… now you've all seen it firsthand. Magic is real. Spells are real. I know some of you might think this is just legend or fiction, but it's happening—right in front of you!"

The agents fell silent, still processing what they had witnessed. Many of them had seen Coulson every day for years. He was familiar, predictable, dependable. But now? Now, he was conjuring fire from thin air. That was a reality-shattering moment.

Taking a deep breath, Coulson steadied his control, forming a small fireball in his palm. The flickering orb hovered in his hand as he continued speaking.

"For the longest time, I—like all of you—believed magic was just superstition. Spells, witchcraft, supernatural forces? All myths. That was until three days ago when I experienced the truth for myself."

He gestured to the fire. "This isn't fantasy. Spells are not magic tricks or illusions—they are part of nature's fundamental laws. And, under the right conditions, anyone with the proper talent can sense and learn to control them."

The room immediately erupted again.

"Rules? You mean, magic follows actual rules?" someone called out.

"You can learn it?" another agent added in disbelief.

Coulson let them talk for a moment before nodding. "Yes, exactly as you heard."

"How do we know if we have this… 'talent'?" someone asked.

Smiling, Coulson closed his fist, extinguishing the fire. "That," he said, "is the purpose of today's session."

As his words hung in the air, the room grew silent again. The agents, one by one, closed their eyes, focusing, trying to tap into whatever energy Coulson claimed was there.

Hawkeye was the first to open his eyes and shake his head with a defeated smile. "Phil, I don't think this is for me. Every time I close my eyes, I can't focus—memories, past missions, everything just floods my mind."

Natasha sighed and nodded. "Same here."

One by one, more agents gave up. They exchanged glances, murmuring among themselves, clearly disappointed.

Coulson exhaled, remembering the words of his mentor. "The path to truth is often a lonely one," he muttered under his breath. "But even if only one person—"

Pfft.

A faint but distinct sound echoed from the corner of the room. Though subtle, it caught the attention of the elite agents instantly.

All heads turned toward the source.

Sitting in the farthest seat was a striking woman with short black hair and a disciplined posture. Unlike the others, who had been seated comfortably, she had remained upright, her expression composed.

In the palm of her hand, a small blue flame flickered, its surface undulating like liquid. Despite its tiny size, the flame gave off a crisp chill rather than heat.

"Maria Hill?" Coulson's eyes widened in surprise.

The flame wavered, fighting to stay alight. Coulson's initial excitement turned to curiosity as he recognized its color and energy. Stepping forward, he lowered his voice.

"Maria, congratulations," he said warmly. "The water element has answered your call. You don't need to force it into a flame shape—water is fluid, it has no fixed form. Try imagining it as a sphere of water instead."

Hill swallowed hard and nodded. "I'll try."

She concentrated, willing the flame to shift. But instead of transforming, the blue fire sputtered and vanished with a soft pop. A faint mist dissolved into the air.

Hill's expression faltered, disappointment creeping in.

Coulson, however, was beaming. The other agents, who had failed to manifest anything, looked on with envy.

This was a breakthrough.

The session had met both of Coulson's goals: first, proving to the agents that the supernatural was real, and second, discovering another individual with elemental affinity.

The second discovery was especially exciting. If Coulson had been more well-versed in classical literature, he might have quoted the famous line: "I am not alone in my journey!"

As the agents congratulated Hill, some among them exchanged glances. A few of them quietly nodded at each other before slipping away as soon as Coulson ended the session.

Thirty minutes later.

One of the departing agents arrived at a heavily secured office deep within S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters. He knocked twice.

"Enter."

Inside sat an older man with white hair, his upright posture exuding authority. Alexander Pierce, the former director of S.H.I.E.L.D. and one of the few with Level 10 clearance, didn't bother standing as the agent entered.

Pierce twirled a pen between his fingers, his sharp gaze landing on the man before him. "Brock Rumlow," he said with mild amusement. "Last I checked, you were supposed to be in California. What brings you back?"

Rumlow, usually composed, looked pale. "Sir, I have urgent information."

Pierce leaned back slightly, his fingers still idly turning the pen. "Nick sent you back for this? What could be so important?"

"Sir," Rumlow hesitated, then steeled himself. "I think you need to check the surveillance footage from the 22nd-floor conference room."

Pierce's hand stilled. He regarded Rumlow with new interest, then slowly reached for his computer.

"Let's see what's got you so rattled."