The streets of New York were chaos in motion—horns blaring, steam rising from manhole covers, the buzz of life unrelenting as dusk painted the sky in bruised shades of orange and violet. The T̶h̶u̶n̶d̶e̶r̶b̶o̶l̶t̶s̶* The New Avengers was supposed to be simple. In and out. Secure the asset. Contain the anomaly. De-escalate before the press caught wind of another enhanced skirmish in midtown.

John had done this a thousand times.

He didn’t expect to see a ghost.

The rooftop chase started fast—too fast for normal foot traffic. He’d spotted the silhouette leaping between ledges, three blocks ahead, like a memory caught in motion. Familiar in the way only muscle memory could recognize. Not flashy. Efficient. Precise. The kind of movement born of brutal training, close-quarters drills, black ops missions in places they weren’t even supposed to be.

“North quadrant, target is enhanced—moving faster than intel suggested,” Walker muttered into his comm, but his voice was far away in his own ears. Because he knew that gait. The way the figure shifted weight between steps, the turn of their head when they scanned perimeters. It was all branded deep into his brain.

The way you used to move.

You, who’d bled out two feet from him during that hell-scorched op overseas. You, who covered his flank on ops when Lemar was still a squad leader and the stars and stripes still meant something. You, who were good at reading the silence between orders, and who never let your hand shake, even when the dark crept too close.

You, whose grave he visited once a year, always before Lemar’s.

He’d never told anyone that part. Not his fiancée. Not the therapists they forced on him post-discharge. Not Val.

He’d just gone. Every spring. Laid a dull bronze medal down on the stone and stood in silence.

But now—now that same shadow had just vaulted a fifteen-foot alley gap like it was a sidewalk crack. John landed hard on the next rooftop, boots grinding to a halt, heart punching into his ribs.

“Stop!” he shouted, voice ringing out.

The figure paused for just a second—one second. Enough to glance over their shoulder.

His blood ran cold.

Same eyes. Same damn eyes. He knew them from the moment he saw the glint of recognition hit you just before you turned and took off again.

It was you.

Alive.

And running.

John launched after you. He was stronger now, faster. The serum burned through his veins like rocket fuel, but still—you were keeping up. Not just keeping up. Outpacing him.

You turned a sharp corner, vaulting a fire escape with casual power. The iron rail bent slightly beneath your grip—not normal. Not just well-trained. Not just field-tested. Enhanced.

That was the final piece that knocked the wind from his chest.

You weren’t just alive.

You were different.

The two of you crossed into lower Manhattan, weaving between blinking neon signs and pedestrians who screamed at the blur passing by. Traffic split around you. John ducked into an alley shortcut, guessing your path like he used to when the two of you sparred in the dark and finished each other’s plans in silence.

He caught up when you landed on a rooftop near Canal Street. Breathing hard. Not in fear. Just exertion.

He didn’t aim his weapon. Didn’t say your name.

Just… stared.

You turned to face him. No mask. No helmet. Just your face. Older, scarred, but you. The jawline that used to press against his shoulder during dust storms. The eyes that used to glance back at him after a kill, needing no words.

A long silence stretched between you, charged like lightning about to strike.

John took a breath. Then another. “…You died.”