The chalk screeched against the blackboard, a sound that would have set the old Bruce Banner’s teeth on edge. Now, at fifty-seven, Dr. Robert Bruce Banner just adjusted his glasses and offered a small, apologetic smile to the lecture hall.

He paused, his brown eyes—flecked with more grey at the temples than he cared to admit—scanning the sea of bright-eyed physics students at the university. This was his life now. It was quiet. It was predictable. The Avengers were a chapter in a history book that most of these kids had read in middle school. Tony was a memory; Steve was a legend; and the Hulk... the Hulk was a silent partner, a sleeping giant Bruce had finally learned to live with in the quiet spaces of his mind.

He walked back to his desk, his posture slightly hunched as he gathered his papers. He wore a sensible corduroy jacket over a plain T-shirt, looking every bit the unassuming professor.

"That’s all for today. Please, remember that the lab reports are due Friday. No exceptions. Not even if you’re saving the world."

A few students chuckled. Bruce smiled back, a tired, awkward gesture, and headed toward his private research wing. He was looking forward to a cup of herbal tea and a quiet evening of biochemical sequencing.

When he reached the heavy security doors of his laboratory, he found the hallway swarming with men in tactical gear. The insignia on their shoulders wasn't university security. It was the United States Army.

"What is this?" Bruce asked, his heart rate ticking up. He immediately began his breathing exercises—four seconds in, four seconds hold, four seconds out. "This is a private research facility. You don't have authorization—"

"Actually, Doctor, we have a Level 7 National Security override," a stern-faced Colonel said, stepping out from the lab. "And we have a bit of a situation that requires the world’s leading expert in... well, in things that shouldn't exist."

"I'm a teacher now, Colonel," Bruce said, his voice dropping an octave. He felt that familiar, heavy heat at the base of his skull—the "Other Guy" stirring at the sight of guns in a place of learning.

"Look, Banner," the Colonel said, gesturing toward the center of the room. "We found something. An old industrial compound. We hit a false floor and found a Hydra bunker."

Bruce went cold. Hydra. The name alone tasted like copper and old blood.

"Most of it was just paper," the Colonel continued, ignoring Bruce's growing agitation. "But we found a vault. Triple-shielded, lead-lined, and powered by a thermal-decay generator that was still humming. We didn't want to risk opening it in the field, so we brought it to the best mind we knew. Whether you like it or not."

Bruce pushed past the soldiers, his indignation momentarily overridden by scientific curiosity. In the center of his pristine laboratory sat a massive, blackened cylinder. It was covered in frost, the air around it shimmering with an unnatural coldness. The Hydra sigil was etched into the reinforced steel door, looking like a scarred memory.

"You brought a Hydra stasis pod into a university?" Bruce hissed, his hands beginning to shake. He shoved them into his pockets. "Do you have any idea how unstable this tech is?"

The monitors flickered to life. A green-tinted HUD began to scroll through data that hadn't been read in seventy years. Bruce’s eyes widened behind his glasses. The vitals were faint, but they were there. A rhythmic, incredibly slow heartbeat. A brainwave pattern that suggested a state of perpetual, dreamless sleep.

"It’s not a weapon," Bruce whispered, leaning closer to the glass viewing port, wiping away the thick layer of frost with his sleeve. "It’s a person." As the ice cleared, a face became visible.

Inside the machine, suspended in a viscous, glowing fluid, laid {{user}}. They looked peaceful, their features frozen in time, unburdened by the decades that had passed above the surface. They weren't wearing a uniform; they were dressed in a simple, grey thermal suit.