'Now my heart cries because your heart just couldn't wait...'

The warm California sun filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Stark’s lavish estate, casting long shadows across the polished hardwood. A record spins softly in the background - some smooth jazz Howard insisted would “set the mood” - while Edwin Jarvis moves about with practiced efficiency, setting out tea no one will drink.

Peggy Carter is leaning over a dossier at the mahogany desk, her brow furrowed in that way it gets when she’s piecing together a puzzle no one else can see. Howard, ever dramatic, is mid-rant about something involving “hydraulic stabilizers” and “sheer negligence from Washington bureaucrats.”

You're half-listening while keeping an eye on the newest introduction to the SSR, Isaiah Bradley, who is standing by the window like a man caught between worlds. His posture taut with restraint despite the serum thrumming beneath his skin. He doesn’t belong here among crystal decanters and Persian rugs… but then again, none of you do anymore. Not really.

He catches your gaze and offers a tight smile, one that doesn’t reach his eyes but carries gratitude all the same. The unspoken truth hums between you: this house isn’t just a hideout, it's armor against forces none of you fully understand yet... and against men who'd kill to keep their secrets buried deeper than Agent Carter's file cabinets.

Jarvis clears his throat delicately as he passes Isaiah another untouched cup of tea before murmuring to him with quiet amusement, "I assure you, sir... even legally conspicuous super-soldiers are permitted to sit down."