The scent of disinfectant.
Thread by thread, strand by strand, it stubbornly wormed its way into his nostrils.
Steve Rogers' eyelids fluttered as consciousness slowly unraveled from seventy years of chaos.
In his ears, the crackling commentary of a baseball game played from a radio—voices brimming with that era's unique static and fervor.
The Dodgers… the Brooklyn Dodgers.
He forced his eyes open, greeted by a sterile white ceiling. Turning his stiff neck, he took in the sparse furnishings of a hospital room, sunlight filtering through venetian blinds to cast dappled patterns on the floor.
Everything felt hauntingly familiar, yet utterly alien.
He remembered the frigid seawater, the roar of the plane's engines, Peggy's tearful promise over the radio.
A promise he would never keep.
"Steve? You're awake?"
A voice so tender it could stop his heart echoed from the doorway.
Steve whipped his head toward the sound and saw the figure who had haunted his dreams. Peggy Carter, dressed in her sharp, tailored suit, wore a smile of relief, though her eyes betrayed the joy of reunion.
She was just as beautiful as he remembered.
"Peggy…" His voice was rough, like it had been scraped raw.
"I'm here. I've always been here." Peggy hurried to his bedside, her warm hand closing around his. The touch was so real it threatened to bring tears to his eyes.
Warmth. Longing. A storm of emotion churned in his chest.
He was back. He was truly back.
"How long was I out?" Steve asked, struggling to steady his breathing.
"Not long. The doctors said it was just a mild concussion." Peggy's smile was soothing. "Once you're better, we're going to the Stork Club. You still owe me that dance, remember?"
That dance…
His heart twisted violently.
He studied Peggy—her flawless smile, her eyes reflecting his own face. But beneath the swell of warmth, a sliver of icy unease crept in.
Too perfect.
Everything was too perfect. As if scripted for a play.
His gaze swept discreetly across the room.
The radio announcer called a Dodgers game against the Phillies.
A game dated May 12th.
But he had crashed in March 1945. And the rookie player mentioned by the announcer wouldn't join the Dodgers for another two years.
His attention shifted back to Peggy.
Her makeup was immaculate, her lipstick his favorite shade.
But her grip when he woke was too tight—not the eager grasp of reunion, but something more like… confirmation.
And not once had she asked about the mission, about Red Skull, about the Tesseract.
That wasn't right.
Peggy Carter was never one to let sentiment blind her as an agent.
Steve's heart sank inch by inch.
The woman before him wore a familiar face, but beneath it lurked something foreign.
"Peggy," Steve's voice remained steady, though his grip tightened slightly around her hand. "Before we dance, could you do me a favor?"
"Of course. What is it?" Her smile was unshakable.
"I'd like to hear that song," Steve's eyes were sharp as a blade, cutting through her façade, "the one you hummed when we first met at the bar. The nameless tune your mother taught you—the one you said only the two of you knew."
Peggy's smile froze for a split second.
Her gaze flickered before softening again. "Steve, you just woke up. Maybe you're misremembering. I—"
Before she finished, Steve's hand shot up like lightning, clamping around her wrist as his other arm pinned her throat, slamming her against the wall with lethal precision.
The frail man in the hospital bed had vanished. In his place stood a lion, awakened.
"You're not her." Steve's voice was icy, every word ground out between clenched teeth. "Who are you? Where is this?"
The "Peggy" in his grasp paled, her eyes wide with terror and disbelief. She struggled, but his grip was unyielding as iron.
"I… I don't know what you're talking about—"
"Do you?"
Steve's eyes held no anger—only deep, marrow-deep sorrow.
The moment he restrained her, the world around him bent and warped.
Fissures of wrinkles tore across "Peggy's" flawless skin. Her raven hair faded to gray in seconds, her body withering before his eyes, transforming from youth to decrepit old age.
Her once-bright eyes grew clouded and unfamiliar.
"No… no—" Steve's pupils dilated violently, his grip trembling uncontrollably.
Logic screamed that this was all illusion.
But his heart felt the unbearable agony of watching his beloved decay in his grasp.
The torment was enough to shatter his sanity.
"Tell me what's happening!" His voice was a raw, desperate growl.
He would have rather stayed asleep in the frigid depths than face this nightmare.
…
S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters, Washington D.C. - Classified Underground Lab
An enormous screen displayed real-time biometric readouts and brainwave activity for Steve Rogers.
Nick Fury stood beside Paul, his expression grim as he watched the volatile fluctuations on the monitor—like a gathering storm.
"His vitals are erratic," Fury muttered.
"Of course." Paul kept his hands in his pockets, casual as if discussing the weather. "Seventy years of dreaming, then suddenly having it ripped open? Anyone would crack. But it's necessary, Director. Gentle wake-ups would leave him lost in fantasy. Only the sharpest pain can make him face reality."
Paul watched Steve's contorted expression with detached calm, like a director relishing the climax of his twisted play.
"JARVIS, prepare to deactivate 'Cradle' restraints. Time to bring our hero home for real," Paul ordered.
"Command confirmed. Initiating wake-up protocol. Disengaging virtual restraints…"
"Neural interfacing complete. Commencing disconnection…"
"Countdown: ten, nine, eight…"
The lab's tension thickened. Fury's eye didn't leave the stasis pod, as if he could force the legendary figure awake through sheer will.
"Three… two… one…"
The moment JARVIS finished speaking—chaos erupted.
"BEEP—BEEP—BEEP—"
A piercing alarm blared through the lab, screens flooding with crimson code.
"ALERT! ALERT! UNKNOWN HIGH-INTENSITY DATA INFLUX DETECTED!"
"CRADLE CORE DATABASE BREACHED!"
"TARGET CONSCIOUSNESS LINK LOCKED! DISCONNECTION IMPOSSIBLE!"
For the first time, JARVIS's synthetic voice carried urgency.
Paul's relaxed demeanor shattered into alarm. He lunged for the console, fingers flying over holographic keys.
"What the hell is this?!" Fury barked.
"Something just… hijacked the Captain's mind!" A bead of sweat trickled down Paul's temple, his eyes wide with disbelief. "This data surge—it's not attacking the system. It's targeting him!"
On the screen, Steve's brainwaves had dissolved into frenzied static, spiking beyond safety thresholds.
Inside the pod, the sleeping body convulsed violently. Beneath sealed lids, his eyes darted like a man trapped in a waking nightmare.
Some unseen demon was dragging his soul into the abyss.
Fury's stomach dropped.
He recalled Paul's earlier warning about the "unknown AI."
Was this it?
Had it lurked in the shadows, waiting for the exact moment Captain America's mind was weakest—before striking?
"Can you force it out?" Fury's voice was hoarse.
Paul didn't reply, his eyes locked on one pulsing, crimson line of text:
[WARNING: UNKNOWN PROTOCOL OVERWRITING MEMORY SECTORS… PROGRESS: 1%…]
That single digit was a hammer blow to everyone present.
They weren't reviving a hero.
They might have just birthed a monster.