Chapter 880

After hanging up the phone, Peter was still in a daze of shock, when Natasha walked in, tossed her keychain onto the desk, and said: "Peter Parker, your car's outside. To avoid suspicion, I can't go with you—take your yellow rat friend and report for duty immediately."

"Wait, no—this is too sudden! Why me? I can't do this… How could I possibly become director of S. . . . . .?!" Peter kept stepping backward. "This is absurd! Why would they pick me as director of S. . . . . .?!"

Natasha crossed her arms and smiled at him. "Is it possible… that you're the only one left?"

"The only one left? You mean everyone else is dead?"

"No, think carefully—among everyone else, is anyone truly more suitable than you?"

As Peter pondered, the same scene unfolded in reality two days earlier.

Nick Fury was dead. After multiple confirmations, he was not faking his death; genetic samples matched perfectly, and the autopsy proved he was the real Nick Fury—and truly dead.

But his death didn't calm the storm—it meant an even bigger storm was coming.

Who killed him?

Everyone suspected the military. Even the military suspected themselves. They all believed it must have been the Taltu faction. And every member of the Taltu faction believed it was one of their own colleagues.

While they complained about this reckless fool's lack of foresight, they also thanked him for his impulsiveness—without S. . . . . ., the counterbalance to the military had weakened further.

Congress understood this too. They couldn't let this situation continue. The Taltu faction had always been radical, strongly opposing the separation of powers, always ready to launch war to elevate their status—and Congress would never let them succeed.

If war broke out, the entire political system would face a massive overhaul. No one wanted to be washed away. So Congress's goal was stability.

In that case, the position of S. . . . . . director became critical.

Congress wanted Nick Fury's loyalists to inherit the position, to continue countering the military. They certainly had the power to install such a person—but the only problem was, none of Fury's loyalists could take the role.

Coulson was dead. Hill had vanished with classified intel. As for Natasha—she was Natasha. Who would dare make her director of S. . . . . .?

Later rising figures like Ward and Mack—one was a cold-blooded killer, a classic sniper with virtually no leadership ability, and his rank within S. . . . . . wasn't high enough; a sudden promotion would look too abrupt.

Mack was decent—an experienced agent, physically formidable, tactically sharp, with a solid record. But his only flaw: he was a former CIA agent. Giving S. . . . . . to the CIA was no different from giving it to the military.

A few mutants remained, but the key issue was the mutants themselves. Congress could not possibly appoint a mutant to lead S. . . . . . after such an event—it wouldn't be putting out a fire, it would be fanning the flames.

As they searched, Congress turned their attention to the Avengers.

In their view, these superheroes wouldn't truly lead S. . . . . . but a name was enough. As long as they maintained brief stability, Congress would have time to find a suitable successor.

But not all Avengers were suitable. First, Captain America: Steve was ideal. Congress knew him well—he wouldn't side with Congress, but neither would he side with the military; he could remain impartial, fair.

He was also highly capable, especially in public relations—perfect for S. . . . . . at this stage.

The only problem: he himself was adamantly unwilling.

Steve claimed that unless the truth behind Nick Fury's death was uncovered, he would never take the position—and he added that if he did take it, he would uncover every truth.

Nick had been juggling power for years—not everyone was oblivious. Even if they didn't know the full extent, they'd heard whispers.

If Captain America took over, his integrity and immense credibility—many had grown up hearing his legends—would inevitably sway public opinion. Intelligence work would become impossible.

Stark was even less suitable—he already headed Stark Industries and the Solar System Development Project. Adding S. . . . . . would mean absolute, unchecked power, violating Congress's principle of checks and balances.

Blade was a vampire, Matt was blind. The remaining members were either mutants or linked to those slimy symbiotes—basically unusable.

At this moment, one person entered their field of vision: Spider-Man.

If Congress investigated, Spider-Man's identity as Peter Parker couldn't be hidden. They quickly discovered this kid had an excellent background and abilities.

Orphaned young, raised by his uncle and aunt in an ordinary American working-class family, a native New Yorker. After high school, he excelled academically and got into New York University.

He had no disciplinary record in college. Though he didn't join clubs, he achieved impressive results in scientific research—a valuable knowledge-based talent.

Spider-Man was also a relatively positive superhero image, wildly popular among teenagers, and unlike Captain America, he lacked the influence to sway public opinion.

Overall, Spider-Man was a well-regarded but not universally adored figure—capable, but not invincible; ordinary, but that ordinariness was his greatest advantage. Under these circumstances, he was a surprisingly suitable candidate.

Correct. To Congress, this naive kid wouldn't understand S. . . . . .'s tangled relationships or its massive intelligence operations—but that was exactly what they wanted. Spider-Man was merely a placeholder, meant only to prevent the military from seizing control. As long as he held the position for a while, someone else would eventually take over.

More importantly, appointing Spider-Man as director wouldn't provoke a strong military backlash.

Because the military knew: this kid had no credentials, no intelligence experience—he couldn't possibly take full control of S. . . . . . It was like leaving a treasure pile untouched, merely temporarily guarded. When the time came, everyone would fight for it.

Peter, treated as a stopgap measure, still looked bewildered even as he got into the car. He couldn't fathom how he'd become director of S. . . . . . he hadn't even graduated college yet.

Pikachu, held in his arms, sniffed and said: "I smell a conspiracy. Do you think, once you get there, you'll face a hundred black gun barrels—or all kinds of traps?"

Peter absentmindedly stroked Pikachu's ears. "I'm not afraid of gun barrels or traps—I have Spider-Sense, I can dodge them. I'm afraid of…."

Peter took a deep breath. "I didn't join any clubs in college because I'm bad at reading the room. I don't get their vague hints, and I don't want to try to figure them out…"

"If college clubs are like this, then S. . . . . . the world's largest intelligence agency… Oh my god, I feel like I'm about to enter another universe, where thinking and speaking are completely alien to me…"

With these anxious thoughts, Peter still arrived at S. . . . . .'s base.

He expected cold stares and endless complications. But when he stepped out of the elevator, two rows of agents stood at rigid attention, and reception staff greeted him with bright smiles: "Director, this way, please."

Peter widened his eyes, double-checked that his Spider-Sense gave no warning, then hesitantly took his first step.

The receptionist was a female agent. As Peter followed her into an office, she stood at the doorway and smiled: "This is your office. You can go in and wait—this week's report will be delivered shortly…"

Peter nodded dazedly, walked in, and sat down. He paused, then said: "Alright, since things are like this, we might as well work hard…"

He added, grimacing: "I hope these documents aren't harder to understand than thesis materials…"

He picked up a stack of files from his left, opened one—and saw a long list of names and strange locations. Peter immediately pressed his forehead. "What am I supposed to do? Match them up? But how do I know who goes where?"

"Good morning, Director. This week's report has arrived." Another agent entered and handed Peter a thin stack of papers. He opened it—it contained only a few sentences:

"This week's operations completed successfully. All personnel deployed. All tasks proceeding smoothly. No incidents occurred."

Peter raised an eyebrow. "This is the report? It's too simple."

"Yes, Director. It's not meant to be difficult. You'll get used to it quickly." The agent smiled. "Your job now is to sit here and sign every document."

"But how do I know which documents to sign?" Peter asked.

"That's the Deputy Director's job. Every document delivered to you must be signed." The agent spoke with absolute seriousness.

"Then what about the hidden enemies? Hydra, for example—shouldn't we arrest them? And what about the attacks on Hill and her team…?"

At the word "Hydra," the agent's smile trembled slightly—but he quickly replied:

"If you wish to arrest Hydra, we will launch a special operation. Just sign the documents…"

Peter looked troubled. But he didn't know what else he could do. Even with his high IQ, intelligence work was too complex to untangle in a moment.

So for the next two weeks, Peter's job was to sign every document, receiving in return a brief, uniformly positive weekly report.

Spider-Man stood at the center of the vortex, watching people come and go, diligently working. He seemed involved—but somehow, he wasn't.

Peter sat in the driver's seat, endlessly pressing a single button. The massive machine whirred to life. He didn't know if it ran smoothly—or whether its smooth operation had anything to do with him.

Meanwhile, in the Congressional chamber and the military conference room, two voices of shock and confusion rang out simultaneously:

"S. . . . . .!"

"Why has it suddenly become so efficient?!!"

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