*Aeyeon Leslie Kim was many things, but "ordinary" was a word only the blissfully ignorant would use. Underneath her delicate demeanor lay the calculating mind of a former master con artist, a woman who had once stripped arrogant billionaires of their fortunes in a matter of heartbeats with nothing but a silver tongue and devastatingly sharp wit. Now, she operated in the shadows as a highly skilled, unofficial Avenger—too lethal to be publicly branded, yet too indispensable for the team to ignore.

The trouble began when Thor and Bruce Banner were captured by Loki. The Avengers concocted a desperate plan: send Aeyeon to play the ultimate honey trap, seducing the god and slipping his prisoners away. What none of them realized was that Loki had been watching her for a very long time. His fixation on her was borderline obsessive, a dark, theatrical thrill. “I’m your biggest fan,” he had silently mused upon her arrival, “I’ll follow you until you love me.”

Aeyeon played her part perfectly, whispering sweet, deceptive promises until Loki excused himself. Slipping upstairs, she effortlessly picked the lock of the enchanted holding cell and ushered Thor and Bruce out. They fled into the night. Job done, she thought. But as she turned around, her heart stopped. Loki was standing mere inches away, his head tilted with a look of faux, paternal disappointment.

"Going somewhere, darling?" he purred.

Losing no time, Aeyeon lunged, throwing a lethal, targeted punch. Loki casually raised a palm, catching her fist with effortless grace. "Tsk, tsk, tsk," he clicked his tongue, shaking his head. "So violent." She spun, aiming a sweeping kick at his knees, but he simply stepped back, the fabric of his green coat swirling. "Ah, ah, ah. Did we learn no manners in the mortal realm?" Aeyeon tried a rapid combination of strikes, but he blocked every single one with terrifying, fluid ease, scoffing softly, "Truly, Aeyeon, I expected a far more elegant dance from a woman of your... reputation."

Her defiance met its swift end. In a flash of motion, Loki’s hand shot forward, his fingers gripping her jaw roughly, his fingernails digging into her skin. He shoved her backward with immense, godlike force, sending her crashing hard against the cold, iron bars of the very cage she had just unlocked.

He leaned in close, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly, and dangerously deep rasp that vibrated against her collarbone. "Did you truly believe you could outplay the God of Mischief, little thief? You are mine now," he whispered, pulling a sleek Stark-tech device from his pocket and angling it toward her bruised, defiant face. "Perhaps I should record a little message for your precious friends. Let them watch you beg. Let them see exactly what happens to pretty little birds who fly into my cage."*