"No problem."
Antony answered without the slightest hesitation, as casually as if Steve were asking for time off to grab a sandwich.
Steve Rogers froze.
All the speeches he had prepared—about personal grudges, things he absolutely had to do, promises not to harm Vought's interests—jammed in his throat, useless.
"Antony… you're not going to ask what I'm going to do?" Steve said slowly.
"Or… where I'm going?"
"No need."
Antony stood, walked to the cabinet, poured himself a glass of milk—and one for Steve.
"Trust the people you hire, or don't hire them at all. That's an old saying from the East," he said, raising his glass in a casual toast.
"You're Captain America. Your moral compass is sturdier than this building's foundation. If you say this is something that must be done, then it's the right thing."
Steve looked at him.
Sunlight danced across Antony's blond hair. The loud, commercial-looking uniform—so often mocked—felt different now. Less artificial. More… reliable.
That feeling of unconditional trust cut straight through the lingering fog in Steve's chest.
"Go," Antony said simply.
"Do what you need to do."
"Just remember one thing."
He tapped the V.G.D. insignia on Steve's chest.
"You're not just Steve Rogers anymore. You're a Vought S-Class registered hero—and the Chief Instructor."
"If you run into trouble you can't solve out there…"
Antony grinned, arrogant and fearless.
"…call Ashley. Any time. Vought is your strongest card."
Steve stared into the glass of milk, the surface rippling slightly. He'd spent years adjusting to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s atmosphere of suspicion—Nick Fury always holding something back, even from him.
Yet here, in a company Fury dismissed as "all show," Steve felt something he hadn't felt since the trenches.
Trust.
"Thank you, Antony."
Steve drained the glass in one go and set it down with a firm clink.
"I'll be back as soon as I can."
"No rush," Antony chuckled. "I'm pretty sure the trainees would rather let Angelica lead yoga than have you run them ten kilometers again."
Steve laughed, turned, and strode out.
System Notification:
Special Popularity Gained +10,000 (Source: Steve Rogers)
-----
Maryland — Upper Potomac River
Cold wind swept dead leaves against a secluded safehouse hidden deep in the woods.
Within a thousand meters, infrared sensors and pressure mines formed a lethal web.
One of Brock Rumlow's fallback shelters.
Caution, made concrete.
Inside, the lights were off.
Rumlow sat bare-chested in the dim living room, moonlight cutting through the window as he wiped alcohol over shallow wounds on his skin.
He grabbed a bottle of whiskey and took a long pull. The burn eased his nerves—just a little.
Pierce's so-called "cleanup operation" had stabilized things… temporarily. Rumlow knew better.
S.H.I.E.L.D. was a volcano on the brink.
And he was sitting on the crater.
Click.
A faint sound.
Rumlow froze.
Every hair on his body stood up—the reflex of a man who had survived too many knife-edge missions.
Too quiet.
The insects outside had gone silent.
Rumlow set the bottle down. His right hand snapped up with a Glock; his left closed around a tactical knife.
He moved like a hunting cat toward the window.
No alarms.
No mines triggered.
All monitors green.
Yet the suffocating sensation of being watched—by a top-tier predator—kept tightening around his throat.
"Who's there?" he barked into the darkness.
No answer.
Only wind howling through the chimney.
Crack.
A soft sound—from above.
Rumlow looked up and fired instantly.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Three shots punched through the ceiling in a tight triangle. Splinters rained down.
Then—
BOOM!!!
The ceiling collapsed.
A black shape crashed through wood and dust, slamming into the floor.
Rumlow rolled aside and fired again.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
All hits. Sparks flashed briefly in the dark.
In that instant of light, Rumlow saw the intruder.
His blood turned to ice.
The man wore the same tactical vest.
The same haircut.
Even the faint scar on the cheek was identical.
It was him.
"What… the hell is this thing?!" Rumlow shouted, horror flooding his voice.
The other "Rumlow" straightened, tilting its head. The movement was stiff—yet disturbingly smooth, like a system calibrating.
It spoke.
"What… the hell is this thing?!"
Same voice. Same tone. Even the panic was perfect.
"Who the hell are you?!" Rumlow stumbled back, swapping to armor-piercing rounds.
The double didn't answer. It looked down at its chest, where blood seeped around the bullet holes.
No pain. No reaction.
It reached in with two fingers—and plucked the bullet free.
"What… are you?!" Rumlow demanded, fear creeping in.
The copy looked up, lips curling into the exact same mocking grin Rumlow wore in the mirror.
"I'm your Pro Max."
Same voice. Same nasal drawl.
"Shit!"
Rumlow opened fire again.
That's when he realized the nightmare.
The first volley—tank it.
The second—minor tactical dodges.
The third—
When Rumlow tried to roll for the shotgun under the bed—
The copy did the exact same move.
It was learning.
Faster. Cleaner.
THUD!
A heavy boot slammed into Rumlow's chest. Bones cracked.
"AAARGH!"
He screamed as the shotgun skidded away.
The copy picked it up, racking it one-handed with effortless familiarity—the same motion Rumlow had practiced a thousand times.
Coughing blood, Rumlow stared at it in disbelief.
That strength…
It reminded him of Steve Rogers.
But the copy didn't finish him.
Instead, it stepped back… and assumed a fighting stance.
Rumlow's pupils shrank.
That stance—
Krav Maga.
His Krav Maga opening stance.
Low center of gravity. Left hand guarding the head. Right hand probing.
The copy crooked a finger at him.
"Come on."