"...HYDRA agents have been allegedly operating covert assassinations under the nose of the government's secret intelligence organization, S.H.I.E.L.D., for nearly half a century. Agent Natasha Romanoff takes the stand today on Capitol Hill to address complaints against the S.H.I.E.L.D.'s questionable tactics in reconnaissance, training, and their apparent lack of internal investigation…"

I frowned at my phone, turning up the volume on my earbuds trying to drown out the din of noisy cafe around me to listen to the breaking report. When the video ended I scrolled through the article, skimming through the paragraphs, looking for new leads. Nothing. I sighed, leaned back in my chair, and stretched my arms over my head. Finishing the last dregs of my coffee I rose, gathered my bag, and edged my way out the door onto the street.

It was halfway through September, yet I found myself tugging my sleeves up as sweat began to bead on my forehead and neck. Typical for Philadelphia, where summer can go until November and the next day it could snow and no one would bat an eye. The night had been cold and my apartment brisk in the morning from leaving the windows open, so I had worn an autumnal sweater. Regrets.

I ducked into the library out of the traitorous heat and relish the cool and quiet as I headed to the computer lounge. Thankfully my normal seat was unoccupied; I flopped down and spread out my things at the small desk. Notebook, pencils, highlighter, folder of printed documents, sticky notes, phone. On top of the pile is a note I had written the night before with a scribbled list of names compiled from the S.H.I.E.L.D. data dump - possible leads. On the library computer I opened the login to the government database of published criminal files available to the public, and I typed in the first name.

Hours went by as I made my way through the list, becoming increasingly irritated with each name that I strike off. I was so certain that when S.H.I.E.L.D. dumped their files, I would find my guy, my perfect case, my Holy Grail. But it had been weeks, and I had not found him. And I was getting desperate.

I was nearly ready to give up for the day and go get a pizza, but then I got a hit. The name of a HYDRA Special Op captured on a mission brought up a medical file detailing a severe brain injury and blunt force trauma. I dug deeper into the file and find scanned notes from a psychoanalyst detailing the functionality of the operative's brain activity as a result of his injury. My heart thundered as I read through it and as I reach the end, I knew this was my guy. Quickly, I opened a new browser and typed in the name of the psychologist who completed the evaluation: Andrej Kliment. I clicked the search button as a smile twitched the corners of my mouth. Once I speak with the doctor, I thought to myself, I can formulate my thesis. With Kliment's help I can petition for full access to the locked files on the HYDRA agent. Surely he will mentor me, understand why I need to focus my thesis on HYDRA's cutting edge technology and its impact on criminal psychology in this day and age. This is my ticket to my Master's, the big leagues, my future as an award winning criminal psychologist and expert on brain trauma. And then the search results load and my jaw dropped.

Disgraced psychologist Andrej Kliment arrested for murder...

Kliment pleads guilty to Manslaughter…

What happened to Andrej Kliment? Theories abound to the true nature of the man responsible for evaluating and clearing the names of hundreds of criminals…

I scrolled through pages of links, groaning to myself as my bubble of hope deflated. I guess I won't be talking to Kliment after all. Back to square one. I drummed a frustrated fist on the table as I continue to scan the results, resistant to give up the day as a lost cause. Seven pages in, an article title caught my eye: "Is the Killer Shrink Andrej Kliment haunting Philadelphia's Nastiest Neighborhood?" The title is absurd, but I indulge my curiosity and began to read through the article.

"...remanded on good behavior from his manslaughter conviction in 2013. His whereabouts since have been unknown, but an anonymous source is more than certain he is illegally practicing psychiatry in a dangerous Philadelphia neighborhood. 'I found him on Craigslist, he had his credentials listed, he seemed legit… enough,' says the source. 'I wanted to find someone off the grid that I could pay under the table so my husband wouldn't find out. When I got to the address I was sure it was a joke, the building was crumbling to dust and it was a street straight out of a horror flick, and then he opened the door and I recognized him instantly. I could never forget those eyes from the mugshot…"

Could it really be possible that Andrej Kliment was in Philadelphia? I'm not a spiritual person, but I couldn't ignore serendipity as it stared me in the face, even if I was skeptical. I knew that the idea of meeting the man should scare me, but more than that I knew I would kick myself later if I did not at least do a little gumshoe work and find out if there was any truth to the claim. Resigned, I pulled up the map of the neighborhood mentioned in the article and frowned; this was going to be an unpleasant evening indeed.

"There ain't no one comes in here by that name," the grizzly bartender snapped at me. "People 'round here don't like no reporters asking no questions. Either get a drink or get out."

I scowled and withdrew a printed photo of Kliment from my bag and show it to the bartender.

"I'm not a reporter, I'm a student. I'm just looking to ask him a few questions about his work. I'm not concerned about his… anything else." I bit down the word "crimes", certain the bartender would take offense to the insinuation that he serves criminals in his establishment. A quick glance around at the patronage told me that Andrej Kliment was likely not the only one here keeping a low profile. There were a few small groups, drunkenly rambling to one another or shooting pool, but for the most part everyone kept to themselves, eyes lowered into their pints, avoiding my eyes as I looked around. I caught side of a tall, muscular guy hunched in a corner booth, hood drawn over his face, and for the first time since I had entered the seedy establishment, a chill ran down my spine.

The bartender rolled his eyes as I turned my attention back on him, but did a double take at the photo I thrust towards him. "Oh. That's Walter."

My eyebrows shot up in surprise. "You know him?"

"Yeah," said the bartender, "he was a good guy. Always paid his tabs, never no trouble."

"Was?"

"He died. 'Bout a year ago."

"You're sure? You're certain that Walter was Andrej-"

"I'm sure." The bartender slammed a glass down on the counter. "He's dead. Now get out."

Stunned and more than a little annoyed, I snatched back the photo and stomped to the door. In the street I took a deep breath and looked around. There were a few other businesses that looked open I could try, but if the bartender was right, I had long since missed my chance to track down Kliment. I paced up the street and allowed my mind to wander, turning over different situations in my mind about what could have happened to Kliment. I was so focused on my thoughts, I never heard the sound of footsteps as a hand clamped over my mouth and I was dragged, kicking, into the dark shadow of an alley.

Fucking idiot, you fucking, fucking idiot was all I could think to myself, over and over again, as the man forced me deeper into the darkness, cackling to himself as I strained and kicked out against his grip. I tried to reach for my pepper spray but my bag was torn from my shoulder and tossed away. Panic surged through me as I realized there was a second man, mangier and uglier even than the first, grabbing at my arms and holding me down. I could die right now, my brain realized. I could die right in this stupid smelly alley and no one even knows where I am. Fucking idiot.

It was two on one, and although I was no quitter, I knew I had no chance of fighting back. I had just resigned myself to closing my eyes and taking whatever came next, when a loud WHAP pulled a weight off of me and one of the men grunted in pain. WHAP. WHAP. WHAP. Suddenly I realized my arms were free and my eyes flew open: I was facing a brick wall as the sounds of a struggle ensued behind me. I spun around to take in the scene. A man, twice as tall and three times as muscular as the two that had grabbed me, was beating the hell out of the creeps, landing blows to their faces and guts that knocked them off their feet with superhuman force. He had them both under control, seemingly with no problem, and only seconds went by before both men were unconscious on the filthy ground. He rounded on me then and I shrank back as I recognized the hulking, hooded man from the corner of the bar I had just left.

"Are you trying to get yourself fucking killed?"

"No!" my voice came out like a tiny squeak and I realized my entire body was shaking. "I-I-I… I was just… looking for someone…." I trailed off, feeling pathetic and stupid. Great detective work, genius.

"T-t-thank you," I stammered. "That would've probably been… pretty nasty. I owe you. Maybe my life."

His face was shrouded in darkness under the hood and I couldn't make him out, but I heard him sigh from under his hood.

"Come on."