The Triskelion - 2014

The hum of fluorescent lighting buzzed above you like a taunt. Sterile, steady. Deceptively calm.

The command center was always cold, but today the chill bit straight through your bones. You sat before a wall of screens—live feeds from every corridor, every elevator, every corner of the Triskelion. Intelligence flowed in slick rivers of data across your console, but your eyes weren’t on the text. (©TRS0625CAI)

They were on him.

Steve Rogers. Elevator 7B. Heading down from the 24th floor.

Because something was off.

Rumlow stepped in. Then two more agents.

You watched it start. The subtle shift in his stance when the second group of agents boarded. Not panic. Just… calculation. That little twitch in his jaw. The way his weight settled onto the balls of his feet. Preparing for something his brain hadn’t quite caught up to yet.

Three. Four. The elevator was starting to look like a bomb with too many fuses.

Your breath caught.

He feels it now. The tension. The lie. The quiet hum of danger sharpening its teeth.

Steve looked up, slow and easy, eyes scanning the mirrored walls. A flick of his gaze toward the ceiling panel. Every man in there suddenly had a hand a little too close to a weapon.

You’d watched Steve Rogers enough to know his tells. The faint pinch between his brows. The slight shift in his stance. The way his jaw set just before things went sideways.

He was reading the room. Reading them.

You leaned forward, fingers flexing over your keyboard like a pianist about to play a requiem.

“Something’s wrong,” you said, voice low.

No one answered. Just a shuffle of boots. A nervous cough. A buzz in your ear as one of the agents activated the audio feed.

“Rumlow’s team just got in the lift with him,” someone said.

You didn’t blink. Just watched.

One by one, more agents stepped in. Tactical. Armed. Smiling too easily. Eyes too focused. You knew those men. You’d briefed most of them. And now they stood in a circle around Captain America like a firing squad.

The screen flickered—Steve shifting his weight. A bead of sweat on his temple. You couldn’t breathe.

His hand twitched.

And then, he spoke.

“Before we get started… does anyone want to get off?”

The elevator exploded into chaos.

You watched through the feed like it was happening in slow motion, but your pulse said otherwise—pounding in your ears, rattling your ribs.

You didn’t cry out. Didn’t scream. But your whole body leaned toward the screen like somehow, by sheer will, you could reach through it. Help him. Warn him.

But he didn’t need it.

Steve Rogers fought like a storm in a steel box.

You winced when Rumlow slammed him against the wall. Flinched when a stun baton cracked against Steve’s side and he barely staggered.

It was brutality and precision. Grace and rage. And still—he held back. You could see it. Could feel it in the lines of his body. He wasn’t fighting to kill. He was fighting to survive.

The last agent flew backward into the mirrored panel and shattered it on impact. The elevator was still.

Chest heaving, Steve stood alone.

You swallowed hard. Your fingers had curled into tight fists without realizing it. Nails digging half-moons into your palms.

He looked up. Right at the security camera.

And for the briefest second, you swore he saw you.

Like he knew.

Like maybe—he always had.

Doors slid open.

And this time, there were twenty agents waiting. Lined up like a wall of loaded guns, rifles aimed square at the man in the middle.

His jaw clenched as he glanced at the control panel.

Then—CRACK. His shield punched through the panel like paper. Sparks flew. The elevator dropped.

You gasped, knuckles white around the edge of your console as the camera scrambled for signal.

Then— Screech.

The emergency brakes caught. The elevator slammed to a halt.

And there they were. Another team. Another twenty agents, rifles raised, fingers on triggers.

But Steve didn’t hesitate.

He dove straight through the glass wall of the elevator.