Early morning, Brooklyn, New York.
More than twenty black armored S.H.I.E.L.D. vehicles surrounded an old building, their engines rumbling and echoing through the quiet street.
Fully armed agents stood on edge, rifles trained on the building's entrance, fingers resting on triggers, ready to respond to any threat.
Not far away, a bronze statue of Captain America stood silently on the street corner.
At its base, an inscription read: "I'm just a kid from Brooklyn."
Nick Fury stood before the building, his black trench coat swaying gently in the breeze. His single eye remained fixed on the structure ahead, his expression cold and unreadable.
At that moment, Maria Hill stepped forward and reported in a low voice:
"Sir, Captain Rumlow confirms the commando team is ready. They can begin the raid at any time."
Fury shook his head.
"Captain America isn't an enemy—he's a hero. One of the most powerful warriors in the world. We avoid direct armed conflict unless absolutely necessary."
"But he may already be—"
Maria Hill hadn't finished speaking when Fury glanced at her. She swallowed the rest of her words.
Seeing she'd fallen silent, Fury continued:
"I believe in that soldier's will. Hold the commandos back for now. I'll go in and talk to him myself."
Several senior agents nearby immediately stepped forward to protest.
Fury ignored them and strode straight toward the building's entrance.
The agents exchanged uneasy glances but ultimately obeyed their director's order, maintaining vigilance as they watched him disappear alone into the dimly lit structure.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of aged wood and dust.
Fury's boots creaked softly against the floorboards. His right hand hovered near the sidearm at his hip—neither drawn nor removed.
"Captain Rogers," he called, his voice echoing down the hallway. "I know you're in there. Come out and talk. Just the two of us."
Silence.
Fury kept walking until he reached a half-open door. He took a deep breath and pushed it wide—
Inside the dim room, Steve Rogers stood with his back to the entrance. Sunlight streamed through the slats of the blinds, casting stripes of gold across his broad shoulders.
Creak…
The sound of the door triggered an instinct deeper than thought.
Muscle memory seized control. Rogers spun and drove his right fist toward Fury's throat like a cannonball—a killing blow forged in war.
Whoosh!
Fury's pupils snapped tight. At the last instant, he twisted aside. The punch grazed his carotid artery and cratered the wall behind him, spiderwebbing the plaster.
Bang!
Rogers' left knee shot upward, slamming into Fury's abdomen.
Fury crossed his arms to block—but the inhuman force still hurled him backward.
Crash!
His back smashed into an old oak bookcase. Yellowed books and picture frames tumbled to the floor in a cascade of paper and wood.
Outside, the agents tensed at the sudden clamor.
Maria Hill pressed a hand to her earpiece and barked:
"Commandos, prepare—"
"Stand down!"
Fury's voice cut through the comm, sharp and absolute:
"Everyone on high alert! No one enters without my direct order!"
Rogers lunged like a cheetah. His right hook arced toward Fury's temple—but when blocked, he instantly pivoted into a brutal elbow strike.
Bang!
Fury rolled over the wreckage of the bookshelf just in time. The floor where he'd stood cracked in a radial burst from the impact.
"Rhhhhrrgh!" Rogers snarled.
In one fluid motion, he seized Fury's tactical vest and hurled him upward.
Boom!
The two figures crashed through the blinds and slammed heavily into the wall covered with retro posters.
The recruitment poster on the wall tore apart—the famous "I WANT YOU" Uncle Sam image splitting in two.
Nick Fury seized the opening and delivered a headbutt, breaking free as Steve Rogers was briefly stunned.
He rolled to the center of the living room—only to see Steve Rogers already adjusting his stance, executing a standard tactical roll followed by a flying kick toward him!
BOOM—!
The powerful kick sent Nick Fury tumbling into the kitchen, leaving a human-shaped dent in the stainless-steel refrigerator door.
Just as Steve Rogers was about to give chase, he caught a glimpse of a swaying picture frame on the wall.
It was a photo of him and Bucky Barnes under the Brooklyn Bridge—two young men smiling, carefree.
With his massive fist hovering in midair, Steve Rogers' breathing gradually calmed.
He released his grip on Nick Fury's collar and slowly took two steps back.
Sunlight streamed through the shattered windows, illuminating the wreckage: torn jazz posters, scattered baseball tickets, and a Brooklyn Dodgers banner knocked from its mount…
These fragments of memory from the last century lay quietly in the dust of the twenty-first.
Nick Fury wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth and watched Steve Rogers' back as he stood in the interplay of light and shadow.
"I'm so sorry…"
Steve Rogers stared at the faded, dusty posters on the wall and asked in a dry voice,
"The war… is over, right?"
His tone was calm—but tinged with weariness.
Nick Fury straightened his clothes, stepped forward, and stood beside him.
"Yes," he replied. "It's over. And we won."
On April 30, 1945, the Austrian-born artist who had failed his college entrance exams committed suicide in the Führerbunker in Berlin.
On September 2, 1945, Japan formally signed the instrument of surrender, announcing its unconditional surrender to the Allied Powers.
And now, it's 2008.
Steve Rogers fell silent for a moment, then turned to Nick Fury and asked,
"Now that the world is at peace, the military no longer needs me. What do you—or rather, the military—plan to do with this outdated relic?"
Nick Fury, his face bruised and swollen, glanced at the faded World War II recruitment poster on the wall. A strange light flickered in his eyes as he spoke in a steady, resolute voice:
"You're wrong, Captain. The war may be over—but peace has never truly come to this world."
Terrorism,
religious extremism, ethnic conflict—extreme ideologies still threaten global stability.
"The world still needs heroes like you."
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