Trained by Natasha Romanoff, the Shadow is an "independent contractor" employed by an unknown benefactor who is called in by S.H.I.E.L.D. (and other government agencies) to shadow their black ops specialists in the field when they're on solo missions – The Shadow follows the agents, covering their backs so they can focus on their mission.

They were bringing in The Shadow to interrogate him. Ward sat on the cot in his cell, his eyes closed, remembering the time he was in Fallujah. He'd been sent in to eliminate a high-ranking terrorist and was told they'd be sending the Shadow in to cover him. He remembered the rooftop, the target in his sights and hearing the scrape behind him, knowing (hoping?) that the Shadow, wherever he was, whoever he was, would eliminate the threat behind him, never losing his composure, taking the shot. Mission accomplished, he looked behind him to see two crumpled bodies about three feet away, blood pooling beneath them. He disassembled his rifle, stuffed it into his pack, and stood up, coming face to face with another enemy operative. He blanched, but only for a moment, the man's face suddenly sporting a tiny hole between his eyes; he looked around before walking away as the man's body fell next to the other two.

Yeah, the Shadow was good. The Shadow was someone to be feared. He'd never heard of anyone meeting the guy, but apparently he was going to now. He wondered briefly how Coulson had pulled it off, being able to call in one of the most elusive agents in the history of espionage.

The door opened, a guard came in and shackled his wrists and ankles, led him down the hall to an interrogation room, where his wrists were shackled to a bar on the table, his ankles to chains on the chair, everything bolted to the floor. They weren't taking any chances apparently. Did they really think he was that dangerous? He stared at his wrists on the table, wondered what the hell he was doing here. This isn't how things were supposed to happen. He was never supposed to get caught, he was better than that.

You're weak, he heard Garrett say in his head. You got caught because you're weak. You let your emotions – for Skye, for May, for FitzSimmons – cloud your judgment. You got cocky. THAT'S why you're here.

He shook his head, tried to shake the voice away. It wasn't really a voice; he wasn't crazy, wasn't hearing voices. It was just the same voice that had always been there – first in the guise of Maynard, then Garrett – telling him exactly what he was – weak, worthless, not good enough.

He looked up as the door opened, a look of confusion briefly touching his face, then – as always – he shut it off.

He smirked. "Mikayla?" he glanced at the camera up in the corner of the ceiling. "What are you playing at, Coulson? My sister? Really?"

She sat down across from him. His sister. He hadn't seen her in 15/16 years. What the hell was she doing here? Why would they bring HER here?

"Why are you here?" he asked, his voice gruff, his larynx still damaged.

"They called me," she replied. "They wanted me to come talk to you."

"Why? Do they think you're gonna talk some sense into me?"

She shrugged. "Do YOU think I'm gonna talk some sense into you?"

"How could you?" He chuckled. "You're a librarian in Peoria, for fuck's sake."

She leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. "And you're an agent of SHIELD," she said, then glanced down at his hands before leaning back. "In shackles."

He scowled, and spat out another chuckle.

"We all need our cover stories, Grant," she said.

Confusion again. His thoughts whirled in his head. He met her gaze and held it, then shook his head. "Nope," he said simply.

"One in the embassy in Moscow in 2007," she said. "Two in the alley in Dansk in 09. There was South Africa and Peru in 2010. Three on the roof in Fallujah in, what, 2012? And then –"

Ward looked stricken, almost scared. "Not possible," he murmured, barely above a whisper.