One Year Later
The world had changed.
Cities burned slower now, but the scars never faded. Steel skeletons of skyscrapers clawed at the sky, blackened by fire. The night air smelled of ash and gasoline, and even the wind seemed tired carrying nothing but whispers of the dead.
On a rooftop overlooking the ruins of an old S.H.I.E.L.D. safehouse, Nick Fury stood alone. His long black coat snapped in the icy gust, one hand tucked behind his back, the other gripping a small, battered case.
His good eye scanned the horizon, but he didn't see the city. He saw ghosts.
Agents screaming as the Helicarrier burned. Young recruits begging him to run. Soldiers roasting alive under Goblin's fire. Their eyes, their screams, their last words—they replayed every night.
(One year… and I still hear them. One year… and the smell of burning flesh hasn't left my nose. One year… and I still see that kid—barely twenty—bleeding out in my arms, asking if she made her family proud.)
Boots scraped behind him. A voice quiet, steady.
"Sir."
Maria Hill. One of the few who had made it out alive. Her face was leaner now, older. The fire had taken some of her hair, left a scar across her neck, but her eyes still held steel.
"You've been staring at the ruins long enough," she said softly. "Either we rebuild… or we fade."
Fury didn't move. Didn't answer right away. He clicked open the case.
Inside: files. Photos. Profiles. A handful of names and faces ordinary on the surface. But Fury saw the truth. Survivors. Fighters. People who'd lost everything, yet still stood.
He finally spoke. His voice was gravel dragged across concrete.
"S.H.I.E.L.D. is dead. We both know that."
He closed the case with a snap.
"What we need now…" he turned, his eye burning "…is something meaner. Something that hits back twice as hard."
Maria frowned. "And you think these… kids are it?"
Fury's jaw clenched.
"Not kids. Survivors. Fighters. People who've crawled through hell and came out spitting fire." He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "I'm done training polished soldiers. They die too easy."
He stepped past her, staring at the ruined skyline.
"This isn't gonna be a rescue mission. It's a war. And I'm building a team that can win one."
..
…
..
Hours later, Fury walked the empty alleys of Queens with Maria Hill. His boots echoed in puddles, rats scattering from the shadows.
That's when they found him.
A boy. Fifteen, maybe sixteen.
Collapsed against a brick wall. Malnourished. Clothes torn, ribs showing. His lips were cracked, and his eyes half-closed.
A piece of stale bread was clutched in his fist. His fingers trembled like he'd stolen it.
Maria crouched beside him, scanning his vitals. "He's starving. Weeks without proper food."
Fury's eye narrowed. "Name?"
The boy coughed weakly, his voice a rasp. "...Ganke."
Hill's gaze softened. "Where's your family, kid?"
Ganke's cracked lips trembled. He stared at the ground.
"They're gone." His voice broke. "Prowler… Miles… he killed them. All of them."
The boy broke into sobs, head pressed to his knees.
Maria's face tightened. Fury just stood there, silent.
(Prowler. That name again. Another ghost. Another scar on this world.)
For a moment, Fury almost turned away. This was war—there was no room for children. No room for strays.
But then he remembered that girl on the Helicarrier. The one who died in his arms, whispering she was sorry.
(No. Not again. Not another body in the dirt. Not if I can help it.)
Fury crouched low, his good eye locking onto Ganke's.
"You're still alive. That makes you useful."
Ganke looked up, confused through the tears.
Fury's voice was like steel wrapped in fire.
"You want to eat? You want to breathe? You want to make the bastard who took your family choke on his own blood?"
Ganke's trembling hand gripped his shirt. His voice cracked. "Yes."
Fury nodded once. Stood.
"Then get up. You're one of mine now."
Hill blinked. "Sir—he's just a kid—"
Fury cut her off.
"He won't be for long."
Ganke pushed himself to his feet, swaying, his body weak but his eyes burning with something new. Not just grief. Not just hunger.
Hate.
Fury turned, walking into the night, coat trailing behind him.
The boy followed. Step by broken step.
(The world thinks we're finished. That S.H.I.E.L.D. is dead. That I'm dead. But all they did was scatter us. And when the scattered pieces come back together… they'll cut deeper than any blade.)
And in that moment, under the pale moonlight, a new war began.
Not with soldiers.
Not with saints.
But with survivors.
And at the center of it, the kid who had nothing left to lose.
Ganke.
The End