A thin, misty rain fell outside the bus windows.
There were only a handful of passengers aboard. Strangers sat scattered through the carriage—heads bowed over their phones, or gazes fixed on the blurred scenery sliding past the glass. The bus was so quiet it felt hollow.
"Ding—dong! XXX Route stop reached. Passengers exiting, please use the rear door. Mind your step when disembarking."
Clara jolted awake from a shallow sleep.
The moment she heard the announcement, her heart sank.
She'd missed her stop.
Panicking slightly, she hurried off the bus. Outside, the foggy drizzle clung to the air. Clara pulled up the hood of her jacket and turned back the way she'd come.
She'd left home around ten in the morning, ridden the bus for over an hour to wander through a large park in Queens, and spent several hours there alone. She liked this—walking by herself, drifting through unfamiliar places, watching different lives unfold, clouds gathering and dispersing.
But when she exited the park, she'd taken a different gate.
That was where things went wrong.
She couldn't find her way back—and to make matters worse, she'd asked the wrong person for directions. By the time she finally found a bus heading back toward Brooklyn, she'd walked an extra two hours for nothing.
Now it was a little past seven in the evening.
The sky was overcast and dim, but streetlights along the road had already flickered on, bathing the streets in a pale artificial glow. The fine rain continued to fall as Clara hunched her shoulders and walked on.
She'd slept through her stop, but it was only one station past—ten, maybe twenty minutes on foot. After walking all day, she wasn't tired enough to care. Rather than cross the road and wait for another bus, she decided to walk home.
It was quiet.
Maybe because of the rain, maybe because the weather had grown colder—there weren't many pedestrians around. Cars sped by on the road, headlights streaking past in the gloom.
At a corner ahead, Clara slowed.
In a narrow alley stood a small group of young men and women, dressed in flashy, mismatched clothes, laughing loudly among themselves.
Clara slipped her hands into her pockets, lowered her head slightly, and walked straight ahead without looking their way.
She'd encountered people like this plenty of times before—back when she used to work late shifts at night. Groups of aimless youths wandering the streets after dark.
Her usual rule was simple: don't stare, don't engage, walk your own path.
Two worlds, passing without intersection.
But this time, Clara had underestimated both human malice and the danger of unfamiliar ground.
One of the girls—dressed in gaudy clothes, heavy makeup smeared beneath the streetlight—noticed Clara walking alone and smirked.
Picking on the weak was her favorite pastime.
By the time Clara realized something was wrong and tried to run, it was already too late.
She was surrounded.
"W-What do you want?" Clara asked, forcing herself to stay calm. As an adult soul in a child's body, she was far more composed than she looked.
"Nothing much," the girl said with a fake smile. "Your big sister here's a little short on cash. Thought I'd borrow some. Don't worry—I'll pay you back."
She pinched Clara's cheek as she spoke.
It hurt.
"I don't have any money," Clara said.
It was the truth. She barely carried anything—just a few dollars.
"You think I'm stupid?" the girl snapped. "If you've got no money, what are you doing out here?!"
She yanked Clara's backpack off her shoulders.
Clara didn't resist. Fighting back now would only get her hurt.
The bag held nothing important—just a few snacks. Spotting a gap as the girl shifted her grip, Clara slipped free like a fish and ran.
Just one more corner—there was a small police station nearby. If she could reach it, these punks wouldn't dare follow.
The girl rummaged through the bag, found nothing of value, and cursed under her breath. Furious, she flung the bag aside and gave chase.
"Katherine, it's just a kid. Let it go," a blond young man said, grabbing her arm.
That only made things worse.
The blond was her boyfriend. They'd been fighting for days, barely speaking. Now he was opening his mouth for a kid?
Katherine shook him off violently and sprinted after Clara, catching up within moments.
Someone grabbed the hood of Clara's jacket.
Her throat tightened as the fabric yanked back—she nearly blacked out.
"Let go! What are you doing?!" Clara shouted, struggling.
Smack!
A sharp slap cracked across her face.
Her vision spun.
"I told you to shut up, you little bitch!"
It was pure, senseless cruelty.
All of Katherine's anger—toward her boyfriend, toward herself—came crashing down on this random, helpless girl.
"Let me go! Help!" Clara screamed, hoping someone—anyone—would hear.
The blond young man tried to intervene again, clearly not wanting things to spiral out of control.
But Katherine had already lost herself to rage.
She shoved him aside, pulled out a folding knife, and—without hesitation—sliced through half of Clara's hair in a few quick motions.
The roar of a motorcycle engine suddenly cut through the rain.
A tall man parked his bike across the road and sprinted straight toward them.
The others froze.
They'd been watching the drama like it was entertainment—but the moment the knife appeared, panic set in.
When they saw the approaching figure—tall, broad-shouldered, righteous fury written plainly across his face—the group scattered instantly.
Cowards, through and through.
Katherine was dragged away by the blond man as they fled.
Steve Rogers had heard the cries for help from a distance. He'd pushed his bike hard—and arrived just in time to see a group of punks assaulting a young girl.
Now they were gone.
He didn't chase them.
Instead, he picked up the backpack lying on the ground, brushed the dirt off, and walked toward the girl still sitting there.
"They've run off," Steve said gently. "Are you hurt? Do you need to go to the hospital?"
"I… I'm okay. Thank you," Clara replied.
Then she looked up—
—and recognized him instantly.
"It's you! Captain!"
After the Battle of New York, the government had deliberately pushed Captain America into the public eye. They revealed his revival after seventy years in ice and his role in leading the Avengers against the alien invasion.
The strategy worked.
A hero from World War II returning to save the modern world gave people hope—real, tangible reassurance. Many believed that no matter how advanced alien technology might be, Earth would stand as long as it had heroes.
"You remember… the park…" Steve said, surprised.
Clara had seen the news and immediately thought of the "soldier" she'd met there. Same face. Same bearing. Same past.
She'd even encouraged him to play Captain America.
Her cheeks burned all over again.
Steve laughed softly.
"Thank you for the little gift you gave me. It meant more than you know."
A stranger's kindness—simple, sincere—had helped him feel accepted in this unfamiliar era.
"What happened to your face?" Steve asked, gently moving her hand aside.
The swelling was obvious.
His expression darkened. "Those punks… shameless. Do you know them?"
Clara shook her head. "No. I've never seen them before. I think it was just… bad luck."
Steve glanced around, at the empty street, at the strands of hair scattered on the wet pavement.
The human heart, he thought, was a dangerous thing.
"Where do you live?" he asked. "I'll take you home."
He helped her up and guided her across the road to his motorcycle.
"Just two streets from here," Clara said quietly. "Thank you… Captain."
"Call me Steve," he replied.
The title still felt strange on his ears.
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