To be precise, Ronan had only tracked down the trail of the Darkhold.
To actually get his hands on it, he'd need someone else.
Phil Coulson.
Ronan had dealt with this sharp cookie plenty of times.
Thanks to his hidden identity and plot knowledge, he'd strung Coulson along for a while.
But Ronan knew better than to think he could fool a seasoned agent forever.
So this time, he'd cooked up a fresh riddle to share with Coulson.
Thinking it over, Ronan couldn't help but sigh.
Humans always end up becoming the thing they hate most.
With a flash of a golden sling ring portal, Ronan stepped through, landing outside a prison gate.
There, he spotted that oh-so-familiar red vintage sports car.
Phil Coulson's old flame—Lola.
Ronan had ridden in it before. Word was, it even had a flight mode—pretty thrilling stuff.
Inside the car sat a burly Black guy.
One of Coulson's agents—name slipped Ronan's mind.
But he vaguely recalled this dude eventually becoming S.H.I.E.L.D.'s director.
Guess the pattern held: after a string of white directors, it'd land on a Black one.
Very America.
"Hey, man, you waiting on someone?"
Ronan plopped onto the car's rear hatch, all casual-like.
Two-seater sports cars? Sexy, sure, but practicality? Trash.
Yup, why he'd never buy one—past life or this one.
"Kid, I'd get off that car if I were you."
"Someone might kill you for it."
The big guy turned, glaring at Ronan, clearly pissed.
Two reasons.
One: Ronan was rude as hell—hopping on someone's ride without asking, and on the hatch, no less.
Two: He hadn't even clocked Ronan sneaking up.
If the guy hadn't spoken, he wouldn't have felt the car shift.
Was he too zoned in on Coulson's mission to notice?
He started doubting himself.
"Relax, I've ridden this thing way before you."
Ronan grinned, giving the guy's shoulder a light pat.
That move, though, sent a chill down the agent's spine.
Years on the edge of life and death screamed at him: dangerous.
Instinct kicked in—he reached for the gun at his waist.
But when he tried, his arm wouldn't budge!
Ronan had tapped his left shoulder—why couldn't his right move either?
What the hell?
"Told you, don't freak out."
"Whipping out a gun's a bad look."
"Especially with your badge—shooting an innocent like me? That's a felony."
Ronan patted his shoulder again, then pulled his hand back.
Didn't wanna get too cozy—might rub off on him.
As Ronan let go, the guy's shoulder loosened—he could move again.
Only then did he scope Ronan through the rearview mirror.
Damn white guy!
First thought.
Then his brain just spammed "hot."
Especially when a breeze flicked Ronan's bangs—the dude nearly flipped him off.
Fuck!
White, handsome, and that watch on his left wrist? Worth a year's pay.
Rich, good-looking white dude.
Peak Black guy kryptonite.
"Wipe that jealous mug off your face."
"You'll get there someday."
Ronan caught his vibe through the mirror, grinning.
From his angle, he could lock eyes with the guy.
The agent jolted.
This dude… mind reader?
"Who are you?"
Now he wasn't about to move rashly.
His best weapon was in the glove box—right under Ronan's ass.
Plus, this guy was probably an Inhuman.
After tussling with Inhumans lately, he knew their powers were wild cards.
If Ronan wanted him dead, he'd have zero shot to fight back.
Best play: strike first, talk later.
"Don't ask who I am—you don't get to know."
"Just chill and wait for Coulson. I'm here for him too."
Ronan ignored the guy's emotional rollercoaster—his target wasn't him.
It was Coulson.
Hearing Coulson's name, the agent's shock doubled.
But then it clicked.
Now he got why Ronan said he'd ridden Lola before—and why he was waiting for Coulson.
They had to know each other.
But why hadn't Coulson ever mentioned this guy?
If not a friend—maybe an enemy?
Nah, that didn't track.
If they were enemies, Coulson wouldn't let him near Lola—his baby.
The agent's mind churned like a storm.
But he knew the answers would only come when Coulson rolled back.
Lucky for him, that wait didn't drag. Soon, he spotted Coulson.
He hopped out, rushing to meet him.
When Coulson saw Ronan, though, his steps froze.
Wary eyes locked on.
"How'd it go?"
The agent jumped in, asking about their prison gig—prying info from some inmate.
Coulson shook his head, flicking a look at the agent before heading to the car.
The agent got it—scout the perimeter.
"Long time no see."
Ronan grinned at Coulson, all innocent-like.
That smile cranked Coulson's guard to eleven.
After their run-ins, he knew Ronan's deal.
Knew the kind of power he packed.
In Coulson's book, if Ronan wanted, none of these Inhumans they'd faced would stand a chance.
Scratch that—he could squash them with a flick.
Even their toughest big bad—Hive.
"What are you doing here?"
"If I'm guessing right, you need my help?"
Coulson was no slouch.
His brain spun through a dozen theories, landing on the likeliest.
With Ronan's skills, he rarely needed backup.
But Coulson's gut pinged—maybe this tied to those ghost shenanigans?
"'Need' is a strong word."
"I didn't ask for payback when I helped you out."
"Especially when I cleared up your biggest mystery, right?"
Ronan kept that sunny grin.
But to Coulson, it was downright creepy.
Sure, that smile could melt hearts—girls would swoon.
To Coulson? Pure devil vibes.
"Fine, what do you want me to do?"
Coulson remembered Ronan's "help."
Even if he'd later dug up the truth himself, Ronan had pitched in back then.
"I need you to find a book."
Ronan nodded.
Coulson was sharp—no wonder he'd lasted this long.
"A book?"
Coulson echoed, puzzled.
"Yup, a book."
"Called the Darkhold."
Ronan didn't dodge, laying his goal bare.
Darkhold?
Coulson's brow furrowed.
Never heard of it—and why come to him?
"If you're hunting books, hit a library. America's got plenty of big ones."
"That's not my job."
Coulson shook his head—Ronan's pitch sounded nuts.
He was swamped—especially with those damn "ghosts" lately.
Find a book? No way.
"Nah, no library's got this one."
"And the timeline says I'll get it through you."
Ronan flashed a cryptic, fortune-teller grin.
That hooked Coulson right in.
Normally, a vet like him wouldn't bite so easy.
But with Ronan? He had to.
Why? Ronan's groundwork.
Spilling Coulson's resurrection secrets, every detail.
Those spooky moves. That style even Nick Fury dreaded.
All stacked up now.
Coulson had to buy it!
"I know you've got secrets—stuff even top agents don't touch."
"But I still wanna know—what's your—"
Before "goal" slipped out, the agent cut in.
"Hey, Phil—that matchstick guy!"
He'd spotted a suspicious figure.
Their other target: the flaming, skull-faced "matchstick man."
But as he clocked the guy, the guy clocked them.
Mutual recognition—Matchstick floored it!
"Chase! I'll drive!"
The agent lunged for the driver's seat.
"No chance."
Coulson shut him down, sliding in himself.
No choice—the agent circled to shotgun.
Some folks treat cars like spouses—never lend 'em out.
Coulson was that guy.
Vroom.
The sports car roared to life.
Only then did the agent remember Ronan, still on the hatch.
"What about him?"
But as he asked, Coulson gunned it. Lola shot off like an arrow.
Speed so wild, the agent yelped.
Not from the thrill—he just figured Ronan'd—
Huh?
He twisted back. Ronan was still there, steady as a rock.
This… this broke physics, right?
Shouldn't he be road pizza?
The agent gaped, dumbfounded.
"I'm not as fragile as you think."
"Focus on dealing with him instead."
"I'd bet even if you catch him, you can't take him."
Ronan shot the agent a chill look, then eyed the road ahead.
Ghost Rider.
Ronan'd sniffed him out the second he got close.
That hell-stink? Unmistakable.
These types—demon deals, "punishing evil" while wreaking havoc.
Not saying their gig was wrong.
Just didn't belong in the human world.
Human screw-ups? Human laws handle 'em.
Hell or the Dark Dimension playing judge, even if "just"? Shouldn't touch regular folks.
Right or wrong, Ronan didn't care—he didn't judge.
His job? Send those demons back to hell.
Demons "punishing evil" in hell?
Hilarious—only the wicked end up there, right?
The agent brushed off Ronan's quip, but Coulson took it to heart.
Can't beat Matchstick?
He didn't fully trust Ronan—just his own gut.
From what he'd seen, they weren't a match.
Ronan's words just sealed it.
This "matchstick man"?
Not simple at all.