The small wooden radio on the nightstand continued its rhythmic, static-laced chatter, a ghostly echo of a world that didn't exist anymore. Steve Rogers sat on the edge of the bed, his fingers gripping the coarse wool of the blanket. He felt the weight of his own body, heavy and powerful, but his mind was a tangled mess of static.
"...Reese hits it into the park, a high fly ball! The crowd is going wild here at Ebbets Field!"
Steve's eyes narrowed. He remembered the smell of the hot dogs that day. He remembered the humid Brooklyn air and the way the sun had glinted off the brass buttons of the uniform he'd been so proud to wear. But he also remembered the final score. He knew how the bottom of the ninth ended. And the radio was lying.
Click.
The white door swung inward on silent hinges. A woman stepped in, her heels clicking softly on the linoleum floor. She was beautiful in a way that felt curated—perfectly curled auburn hair, a crisp vintage shirt with a dark brown tie, and a shade of red lipstick that was just a bit too bright, like a Technicolor movie. For a split second, Steve's heart hammered against his ribs. Peggy?
But the illusion shattered as quickly as it had formed. The woman's eyes were kind, but they lacked the fire he remembered. She wasn't an agent of the SSR; she was a performer in a very expensive play.
"Good morning," she said, her voice smooth and practiced. She glanced at a thin, silver watch on her wrist. "Or rather, good afternoon. You've been out for quite a while."
Steve didn't move. He watched her like a soldier watches a scout in a trench. "Where am I?"
"You're in a post-operative recovery room in New York," she replied, her smile never wavering. "You had us worried there for a second, Captain."
A breeze drifted through the room, making the white curtains dance. It felt like a summer afternoon, but something was off. The air lacked the scent of coal smoke and ocean salt. It smelled like nothing. It smelled like a laboratory.
"The Dodgers are leading eight to four! What a spectacular game, everyone! The Phillies are scrambling!"
The radio announcer's voice was the final straw. Steve's jaw tightened. "Where exactly am I?"
The nurse paused, her head tilting slightly in a mimicry of confusion. "I'm sorry, I don't understand what you mean. You're in New York, Steve. Everything is fine."
"This game," Steve said, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register. "It was broadcast in May 1941. I know, because I was there. The Phillies didn't scramble. They won. And I was sitting in the bleachers."
The nurse's smile didn't just fade; it evaporated. The warmth left her eyes, replaced by a cold, professional alertness. She realized the script had been burned. Steve stood up, his massive frame towering over her. The small hospital bed groaned and metal squealed under his two-hundred-plus pounds of enhanced muscle. He felt the strength surging through him, more potent than he remembered.
"I'll ask you one more time," he said, his voice vibrating with a decade's worth of suppressed anger. "Where. Am. I?"
The agent reached into her pocket, her fingers brushing a silent alarm. "Captain Rogers, please. We just wanted to make this easier for you."
"Who are you?!"
The door behind him burst open. Two men in tactical gear—black carbon-fiber plating and helmets that looked like something out of a pulp sci-fi magazine—rushed in. They weren't carrying M1 Garands. They were carrying sleek, polymer weapons that Steve didn't recognize.
He didn't wait for them to aim. Steve lunged. He grabbed the lead soldier by the tactical vest and the second by the belt, his hands moving with a speed that defied his size. With a guttural roar, he threw them. They didn't just fall; they flew. The two men smashed through the "wall" of the room, which turned out to be nothing more than painted plywood and thin sheet metal.
Steve stepped through the jagged hole, his boots crunching on the debris. He looked around and felt a wave of nausea. He wasn't in a hospital. He was in a giant, hollowed-out shipping container sitting in the middle of a high-tech warehouse. The "window" was a projection. The breeze was a fan.
"Captain Rogers, stop!" the agent yelled, but Steve was already moving.
He ran. He didn't know where he was going, but he knew he had to get out. He burst through a set of double doors and found himself in a sleek, glass-and-steel corridor. People in suits—men and women holding tablet computers and sipping coffee—froze as the legendary supersoldier sprinted past them.
"All agents, attention! Alarm 13! Captain is mobile! Do not use lethal force!"
Steve didn't stop. He bumped into an agent, sending the man sprawling across the floor like a bowling pin. He felt the world closing in on him. He found a set of exit doors and slammed into them, bursting out into the blinding light of a Washington D.C. afternoon.
But it wasn't the D.C. he knew.
He stumbled onto the sidewalk, and the sheer sensory overload nearly brought him to his knees. Yellow taxis—rounded, aerodynamic, and fast—screamed past him. Towering skyscrapers made of glass and chrome reached for the clouds. Massive glowing billboards displayed images that moved with impossible clarity. People were walking by, staring into glowing bricks in their hands, wearing clothes that looked like pajamas or space suits.
"No," Steve whispered, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "No, this isn't right."
He kept running. He ran through the crowds, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He hoped—prayed—that this was a Hydra trick. That he was in a dream. Because the alternative was a reality he couldn't face. He ran from the quiet side streets into the heart of the bustling city, his eyes darting from one impossibility to the next.
He stopped in the middle of a busy intersection, the honking of horns and the roar of engines echoing in his ears. He looked up at a digital screen showing a news report from a "24-hour cycle." He looked at the cars. He looked at the people. And finally, he looked at his own hands.
A dozen black SUVs screeched to a halt, surrounding him in a perfect perimeter. Doors flew open, and agents with earpieces spilled out, but they didn't draw their weapons.
"Easy, soldier," a deep, calm voice called out.
Nick Fury walked toward him, his black trench coat fluttering in the wind. He looked at the blond man who looked like he had just seen the end of the world. Rogers was breathing hard—he had just covered nearly five kilometers in ten minutes, but he wasn't physically tired. He was soul-weary.
"I apologize for the theatrics," Fury said, stopping a safe distance away. "We thought it was better to let you wake up slowly. We didn't want to break the news to you in a cold room."
Steve looked at the man with the eye-patch, his chest heaving. "Ease into what?"
"You've been asleep, Captain," Fury said, his voice softening just a fraction. "For about seventy years."
The words hit Steve harder than the Valkyrie's crash. Seventy years.
The city around him, the noise, the technology—it all made sense now. He wasn't in a dream. He was in a graveyard. Everyone he knew, everyone he had fought for... they were gone. The faces of the Commandos, the smell of the motor pool, the sound of the USO shows—it was all ancient history.
And then, he remembered the last thing he had said. The promise he had made while the ice closed in.
"Next Saturday, at the Stork Club, at eight sharp. Don't be late, understood?" "I still can't dance." "I'll teach you. Just show up."
The neon lights of a nearby Starbucks blurred as Steve's eyes welled with a grief he couldn't name.
"Are you alright, son?" Fury asked.
Steve looked at the glass towers one last time, then back at the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. "I'm fine," he said, his voice thick. "It's just... I have a date."
While a legend was grieving in Washington, a much more lighthearted scene was unfolding in a cozy living room in Queens.
"YES! I won! I won! Take that, Leander!" Peter Parker, nearly ten years old and full of boundless energy, dropped his game controller and did a victory lap around the coffee table.
On the TV screen, the words PLAYER 2 WINS glowed in bright red. Leander's character was face-down in the digital dirt.
"Alright, alright, calm down, champ," Leander laughed, ruffling Peter's hair. He was sitting on the floor, leaning back against the sofa. At nearly 1.7 meters, he was starting to fill out his frame, his shoulders broader and his jawline sharper than they had been just a few months ago. "You got lucky. I was distracted by the smell of Aunt May's cooking."
"Liar! I practiced for three hours while you were 'interning'!" Peter cheered. "So, tomorrow? The toy store? You promised!"
"I keep my promises, Pete. We'll go tomorrow. You can pick out the biggest LEGO set they have."
Leander looked at Peter, who was still vibrating with excitement. He noticed that while Peter was energetic, he was still a bit on the small side for his age. "Hey, Pete, are you actually eating your vegetables? You haven't grown an inch since the summer."
"I'm growing! I'm just... compact!" Peter defended himself, sticking out his chest.
In the kitchen, May and George were laughing as they prepped the New Year's Eve dinner. The house was filled with the scent of roasted turkey and cinnamon. Tinsel and colorful lights draped over every picture frame, and a massive tree stood in the corner, its ornaments reflecting the warmth of the room.
Leander felt a deep, profound sense of peace. He had faced the Wakandan military, stared down a God of Thunder, and held the fate of the universe in his conversations with Tony Stark. But right here, with Peter arguing about video games and May laughing in the kitchen, was the only place where he didn't have to be a weapon or a prodigy. He could just be Leo.
"Enjoy the rest while you can, kid," Leander whispered to himself as he watched the digital fire on the TV screen. "The world is about to get a whole lot louder."