Seeing her own underwear delicately finessed between Matsumoto's fingers like she was folding origami, Daisy felt a creeping weirdness crawl up her spine. She didn't scream, but she did make a quick tactical retreat into her room, mumbling something vague about privacy and electromagnetic fields.
Just as she was about to close the door, Matsumoto chirped, "I've scrubbed the bathroom too. Feel free to use it anytime!"
After running around town all day, the idea of a hot bath was basically nirvana. Daisy nodded her thanks, started undressing—and then the door creaked open.
Matsumoto wandered in, casually holding a towel and—oh no—Daisy's own underwear.
"I thought I'd shower too," she said with the innocence of a kitten.
Daisy, shirt in hand, stared at her like she'd just announced she was an alien warlord from Xandar.
"Yeah, no. Solo showers. Very solo," Daisy declared, ushering the enthusiastic maid right back out. With her enhanced powers, accidents weren't out of the question. And the last thing she needed was a sitcom-level misunderstanding involving plumbing, steam, and unexpected superpowers.
Over the next few days, though, things... mellowed out.
Daisy found herself gradually adjusting to this new luxury life. Matsumoto, in full "retainer" mode, handled everything except Daisy's most intimate needs. Food? Done. Clothes? Ironed. Transport? Scheduled. Daisy had to admit—this felt dangerously close to being pampered.
Miss Maid even took issue with Daisy's style—or lack thereof.
"Neutral-toned hoodies and canvas shoes? Miss Johnson, it's criminal to hide that beauty," Matsumoto scolded like a fashion police detective.
Makeup? Jewelry? Apparently essential. Daisy humored her. She watched YouTube tutorials and submitted to daily critiques. Whether any of it was sticking, who could say?
One morning, Matsumoto, fidgeting like a student asking for extra credit, said she wanted to learn hand-to-hand combat.
Daisy nearly choked on her cereal.
"Melee? You? Sweetheart, the only thing you're currently qualified to attack is a filing cabinet," she said gently. "Get that lawyer license first, then we'll talk takedowns."
Despite her tracking tech and sharp instincts, the Japanese remained mysteriously quiet. No secret agents, no sneaky ninjas—just boring old silence. Daisy wasn't sure if it was overconfidence or strategy.
Time rolled on. Her school was officially shut down, and she spotted James Wesley hobbling around with a bruised ego—and face. The director and shady benefactor had inked their shady deal. Students with connections quietly vanished.
"Daisy, what are your plans now?" asked Angela, tilting her head with the concerned look of someone who thinks "career fair" means "life solved."
Daisy couldn't very well say she planned to dropkick SHIELD, dismantle HYDRA, and maybe grab a bagel on the way. So, she just nodded and mumbled something about credits.
Her mind, meanwhile, was buzzing with visions of Chitauri, Infinity Stones, and ancient space gods with boundary issues.
After lunch with Angela, Daisy walked her to her job at the corner convenience store and wandered off, mentally budgeting. She'd burned through almost $2,000 on books, groceries, rent, and whatever Maki Matsumoto's mysterious soaps were made of. That left $8,000 and a nagging sense that ramen wasn't going to cut it for much longer.
Sitting on a street bench, she idly scanned the crowd with her sixth sense activated. A wobbly ping in her mind caught her attention.
An elderly Chinese woman with the kind of skin that looked more like ancient tree bark than human flesh was slowly tottering toward her with a cane. Her tiny eyes narrowed with interest.
Daisy's instincts howled. That squishy, bouncy vibe in the air? There was only one person in New York with chi that weirdly gelatinous.
"Madame Gao," Daisy thought, resisting the urge to hiss like a cat. Four hundred years old, chi monster, kung fu grandma from hell.
"You need something, Grandma?" Daisy asked politely in English.
Madame Gao grinned like a crocodile and replied in perfect Mandarin: "Little girl, your eyes are as bright as stars in the night sky."
Yeah. Full creeper alert.
Daisy bolted.
She barely got two blocks before hearing heavy footsteps pounding behind her.
"Oh come on," she groaned, glancing back to see two bald bruisers coming at her like they'd just escaped from an MMA farm.
Now, most cinematic heroines in this moment would panic, heels clicking desperately as they darted into an alley.
Not Daisy.
She wore pants. And sneakers. She didn't run—she launched.
The bald brothers were left blinking.
"She's... running already?" one muttered.
"Madame Gao said follow her, not race with her" the other grunted.
Still, orders were orders. They thundered after her.
But Daisy wasn't just running—she was parkouring like a caffeinated ninja. Wall-tap, rooftop leap, ledge roll. All while carrying a backpack like it weighed nothing.
Two hundred pounds each, the bald brothers hit every trash can and fence like wrecking balls. It was like watching bears try to play hopscotch.
"Call for backup!" one huffed, reaching for his phone. "Have someone block her ahead!"
But Daisy was already a step ahead.
Spying a ten-foot iron gate, she didn't pause. She tapped her toe, launched up, caught the top, flipped her body over, and landed gracefully like a cat with rent to pay.
The bald duo skidded to a halt. They eyed the gate. They eyed their bellies. They sighed.
"You first."
"Nuh uh. You go."
Split up, they decided. Surely this squirrel of a woman couldn't outrun a perimeter.
Meanwhile, Daisy dipped into an alley, shadowed in concrete and tension. She crouched, placed a hand on the ground, and pulsed her senses outward.
A signal. Tattooed arm. Heavy footfalls. Boom—target acquired.
As the thug passed by, Daisy unleashed a silent pulse from her palm.
Thwump!
The man flew like a paper kite, slammed headfirst into a wall, and crumpled.
Daisy strolled out like it was a Sunday picnic, slipped on gloves, and frisked him. P239 pistol, four bullets. Meh.
Wallet? $150.
"Cheap date," she muttered, stuffing it in her pocket.
Then she noticed the mud caked to her shoe from the earlier ditch dive.
"Ugh, seriously? These were my good canvas kicks."
She wiped them on the goon's jacket with all the grace of someone cleaning their boots on a welcome mat.
"If this keeps up," she muttered, "I'll be charging for performance art."
Welcome to New York—the only city where grandmas want your soul, and bald brothers just want a cardio break.