Above Base 17, the helicopter's propellers spun hard enough to rattle the air, roaring like a beast waiting to be loosed. Steve Rogers, already in full combat gear, gripped the hatch with one hand and held his shield in the other. He turned to Agent Melinda.
"I'm going down first. Stay close."
Melinda nodded and signaled the pilot to lower altitude, but Steve didn't bother waiting. He dove straight out of the aircraft. As he dropped, he adjusted his posture, braced the shield beneath him, and hit a balcony hard enough to shake the railing.
"Bang—"
The vibranium absorbed the impact perfectly. Steve rose without effort, rolling his shoulders; the faint soreness in his arms vanished almost instantly.
"Piece of cake."
Two prisoners upstairs heard the crash and rushed down the stairwell. A shield suddenly shot out from below, ricocheting off the wall at impossible speed. It smashed one man in the gut, bounced again, and struck the second square across the jaw, dropping both before either could shout.
Captain America strolled up the steps, expression cool and detached. He yanked his blood-smeared shield from the first man's throat and flicked the blood away.
Another unfortunate prisoner lay slumped on the stairs, clutching his stomach and retching. The only reason he wasn't disemboweled was because a bulletproof vest had taken the worst of the blow.
Rogers let out a crooked, disturbingly satisfied smile. He grabbed the man by the collar, lifted him as if he weighed nothing, and drove a fist into his abdomen.
A serum-enhanced punch—hundreds of pounds of force—hit like a battering ram. The man folded, choking on blood as his body went still.
As his victim's final tremor faded, a wave of relief washed over Rogers. It felt disturbingly familiar, like a craving indulged after too long without it.
Up above, Melinda listened to the pained echoes over comms, dread creeping up her spine. Fury had warned her to note every strange shift in Rogers' behavior. He'd been clear: this might be the start of the Captain's slide into something far darker.
"Captain… are you alright?"
Her voice trembled, and Rogers heard it immediately. "Relax. I'm fine. Better than fine."
The reassurance was double-edged.
He ripped out the earpiece, slung his shield over his shoulder, and scooped up two pistols from the floor. For long-range work, firearms beat fists. Within five paces, they were just as precise—and far more efficient.
He moved lightly down the stairs and slipped into a corridor. Most of the cells on this floor had been forced open; the prisoners were gone. Only scattered henchmen remained.
Steve's guard dropped—and disappointment replaced it. He'd expected a battlefield, not scraps.
His boots clicked crisply as he advanced, unhurried. Every henchman he passed dropped with a single clean shot.
The corridor opened into a wide hall. Corpses—guards and prisoners alike—were scattered everywhere, eyes frozen wide, disbelief etched into every face.
Rogers surveyed the scene slowly. The smell of blood hung thick in the air, sharp and intoxicating, almost like alcohol. He took it in, the corner of his mouth twitching.
He hadn't felt anything like a buzz since the day he got the Super Soldier Serum.
Just as he was feeling a little smug, a metallic clatter rang out—sharp and out of place in the silent hall. Rogers looked down just in time to see an orange pumpkin bomb roll to a stop at his boots.
Instinct shot through him. He swung his shield down and scooped the bomb up under it.
Boom.
A burst of light and fire blasted upward, the shockwave flipping the shield and hurling Rogers across the floor.
"I was wondering who it was… but it's Captain America."
A shrill laugh echoed from the far end of the corridor. Steve groaned, shook the ringing from his head, and pushed himself up from the streak of blood beneath him. The vibranium shield had absorbed most of the blast, but the leftover punch left his muscles trembling.
Through the haze, he saw a figure in green armor and a snarling blue helm—the Green Goblin, one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s top-priority targets.
"Is that all you've got?" Rogers dusted off his suit as if brushing away lint, looking perfectly unimpressed.
That little gesture snapped something in the Goblin's darker personality. Without the helmet he was a corporate titan, a senior director of Osborn Corporation. With it, he became the Green Goblin—feral, vicious, and allergic to disrespect.
"Captain America, the great hero of the American people," Osborn rasped. "Funny thing is… what I hate most is you sanctimonious frauds."
Steve didn't get angry; he actually laughed. According to S.H.I.E.L.D. intel, the Goblin was volatile and easy to provoke. If you wanted to handle him, you didn't fight his strength—you steered his emotions.
"Green Goblin," Rogers said, tone dripping with disbelief, "everyone swears you're the ultimate lunatic, the kingpin of New York's underworld. Honestly? I'm not seeing it. Getting mad at others is easy. Real madness is being willing to destroy yourself."
The words landed like a dart straight into Osborn's ego.
"What are you implying?" The lenses of his helmet glowed with malice. He wasn't the kingpin yet, but he intended to be—and kings don't tolerate insults.
Rogers grinned when he saw the hook catch. He knelt, rummaged through the fallen soldiers nearby, retrieved his shield, and pulled a revolver from one of the corpses. He held it up between them.
"How about a round of Russian roulette?"
"So that's it. You want to bet your life with me," Osborn snarled. A month ago he would've rejected the idea outright. Billionaires don't gamble with their lives; that's for people who have nothing to lose.
But now? Now he was the Goblin, a creature who fed on chaos.
And the one standing opposite him was Captain America.
"Fine," he cackled. "I'll play."
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