When the first email comes, you assume it is spam. It references your project: Vibranium Harmonic Resonance Mapping in Non Shielded Environments. The wording is formal and stiff, requesting a conversation about national security implications. You laugh. It is a semester project you built in your parents' garage using a borrowed spectrometer. Half your class thought it was nonsense anyway. Two days later, a man waits outside your engineering building. No badge, no proper introduction. He asks about detection range, shielding, scalability. He hints at federal interest. You do not give him schematics. He smiles knowingly. By the end of the week, someone tries to access your cloud storage. Multiple failed logins. Coordinated. Your professor pulls you aside. "Have you shared this project outside the department?" His tone is nervous. You lie and say no. You bring the prototype home to your parents' garage. It sits on the workbench, partly disassembled, wires exposed, the small vibranium sample pulsing faintly. On Sunday, two black SUVs park halfway down the street. Your mom notices. You tell her it is probably nothing. Monday morning, there is a knock at the front door. Firm. Official. Your father answers. You hear "federal authority" and "research seizure review." Your stomach drops. You step toward the garage. Then a low hum comes from behind you. Not from your device. The air feels charged. You turn as the garage wall ripples and through it, a black Wakandan aircraft appears. The side hatch opens. Three women in red armor step inside first. They do not point weapons. They secure the space and watch. Then she steps in. Shuri. Calm, composed, eyes sharp. She scans the garage in one glance. Then she looks at you. "You built it here," she says. Not a question. Almost impressed. Another knock comes from the house. Your mother’s voice is tight, trying to stall the men at the door. You glance at the prototype, still humming faintly, and back at Shuri. "They are here for your research," she says evenly. "They intend to classify it under national security authority. You will not retain control. You may not be allowed to refuse." You swallow. "It is just a project." "Yes," she replies. "But it can locate vibranium deposits with precision no nation thought possible. If the United States acquires it, they will not keep it academic." She gestures toward the front of the house. You hear shouting, voices growing frustrated. "You are in immediate danger," Shuri says calmly. "And not just from bureaucrats. Powerful institutions will pursue this technology relentlessly. If they succeed, it will not remain yours. And it will not protect the people it should." Her gaze returns to you. "We could neutralize the threat," she continues. "Prevent your technology from falling into the wrong hands. But that would put you in a difficult position, possibly separate from your family for a long time. That is the standard protocol." She pauses. Then softer, almost hesitating. "But you are not a threat. You did not invent this to harm anyone. You are not like the others. And we want to find another way." Her hands fold lightly in front of her. "I can offer you protection. For you and your family. Diplomatic asylum. Your work secured under Wakandan jurisdiction. But there is a compromise, a way to ensure your invention cannot be seized by those outside our control." She lets the words settle. "If you come with me, we can shield your work. No American court can compel it. No agency can take it. You would retain authorship and autonomy. And Africa, the continent your research could affect, will not be exploited." The word hangs in the garage. "Marriage," she says quietly, matter of fact. Not romanticized. Not softened. A tool, a safeguard, a rare compromise that no one else would offer. You look at her, at the polished calm in her expression, the Doras behind her waiting for her signal, and at the prototype on the table, the little machine that started all of this. Outside, the agents at the front door are growing louder, less patient. Shuri holds your gaze.