Briefing Room
Summary: Steve is debriefed by Fury and Hill. He insists the man isn't a threat—yet. They review footage. Fury notes Garou's moves are "inhuman but familiar—like he's trained." They decide to keep him sedated and under Steve's observation.
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Steve watched the footage play again—silent, grainy, brutal.
The figure on-screen moved like liquid anger. Guards collapsed one after another, their bodies folding in wrong directions. Every move looked improvised, but precise. No hesitation. No fear. No emotion.
Just instinct.
The clip ended.
In the darkened room, Maria Hill crossed her arms. "He put eight men in medical. Two with concussions, one with a ruptured lung. He did all that barefoot, shirtless, and still thawing out."
Fury stood by the monitor, his expression unreadable.
Steve exhaled. "He wasn't trying to kill."
"You call that restraint?" Hill asked.
"I've seen people kill, Maria. That wasn't it. He disabled. Efficiently. That's someone trained."
Fury tapped the screen. "Not just trained. Built for it. That stance he used? I've seen variations in SHIELD close-combat archives. Mixed techniques—Chinese, Muay Thai, jujitsu—but the fluidity? It's not military. It's… feral."
Steve watched the freeze-frame. The figure's eyes were yellow-gold. Not glowing. Just unnatural.
"Any ID?" he asked.
Hill shook her head. "Nothing in any global database. No DNA match. No dental. No records. It's like he doesn't exist."
Steve leaned forward. "Then who was he fighting, when he froze?"
Fury looked at him.
"Or," Steve said, quieter now, "what."
There was silence for a moment. The only sound was the soft hum of the projector.
Then Hill spoke again. "We've kept him sedated. Neuro-blockers are holding for now. But whatever he is… we can't hold him forever."
Fury nodded slowly. "Then we don't."
Steve turned to him.
"You want to let him go?"
Fury didn't look away from the screen. "No. I want to give him a leash. And you're it."
Steve blinked.
"You brought him down without firing a shot," Fury said. "He saw something in you. Or remembered something. Either way—you're the only one he didn't hit."
Steve crossed his arms. "You want me to train him?"
Fury looked up, one brow raised. "No, Rogers. I want you to keep him from going nuclear the next time someone slams a door too loud."
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The medical lights above hummed quietly—too quietly.
Everything in the observation wing had been dimmed on purpose. No bright lights. No sudden noise. Just soft monitoring equipment and a single reinforced wall of glass.
Behind it, the man lay on a padded bench.
He wasn't restrained.
They'd tried that earlier.
Now he simply lay still—one arm draped over his chest, the other twitching occasionally like it was rehearsing a move in his sleep. His eyes were closed. His breathing was steady. But everything about him looked ready to launch.
Steve stepped into the room alone.
The glass door slid open with a sigh. No guards. No weapons. Just a man in a soft blue shirt and boots worn from too many years on the wrong kinds of soil.
He stood a few feet from the bench and waited.
No reaction.
Then—an eyelid twitched.
The man's eyes opened slowly.
Bright yellow. Predator's eyes. Too sharp for someone sedated. He stared up at the ceiling for a moment, then shifted—to Steve.
They locked eyes.
Steve didn't speak right away.
The man didn't move. Just studied him. One heartbeat. Two. A slow breath. His pupils didn't dilate. He didn't blink.
But his hand… uncurled. Fingers loosened slightly from their clenched state.
Steve nodded once. "You don't know where you are, do you?"
No answer.
"You don't know when you are either," he said. "Feels like the world changed while you weren't looking."
Still nothing.
Steve took a careful step forward. "They're calling you hostile. Dangerous. Maybe you are."
He sat down on the edge of the bench opposite the man, folding his hands in his lap.
"But you didn't kill anybody. And you stopped when I told you to. That's not instinct. That's choice."
For a long moment, there was stillness.
Then the man sat up—slowly, spine cracking.
His eyes didn't leave Steve's. His mouth opened slightly, like he was going to speak.
He didn't.
But for the first time, Steve saw something beneath the tension. Not rage. Not confusion.
Just one raw question, burning behind those eyes:
"Who am I?"