Become a Homelander and a Marvel superstar

"no problem."

Azu answered crisply and decisively, without the slightest hesitation, as if Steve were simply asking for leave to buy a sandwich.

Steve paused for a moment, and all the prepared arguments—about "personal grudges," "things that had to be done," and "but I promise not to harm Walter's interests"—stuck in his throat.

"Anthony, aren't you going to ask me what I'm going to do? Or... where I'm going?"

"There's no need for that."

Azu stood up, walked to the liquor cabinet, poured himself a glass of fresh milk, and poured one for Steve as well.

"Trust those you employ, and don't employ those you don't trust. That's an old saying from a great Eastern country." He turned around, raised his glass to Steve, and said, "You're Captain America, your moral compass is stronger than the foundation of this building. If you say it's something that must be done, then it must be right."

Steve looked at the man in front of him. Sunlight danced on his blond hair, and his flamboyant uniform seemed less commercial at that moment, instead exuding a trustworthy warmth.

That feeling of being unconditionally trusted dispelled the gloom in Steve's heart.

"Go, do what you're supposed to do."

"But remember one thing."

Azu pointed to the VGD badge on Steve's chest.

"You are not just Steve Rogers now, you are also Walter's S-class registered hero, the chief instructor of heroes."

"If you encounter problems you can't solve outside..."

Ah Zu laughed, a laugh that was somewhat arrogant.

"...Call Ashley anytime. Remember, Walter is your strongest trump card."

Steve stared at the milky white liquid swirling in the glass, remaining silent for a long time.

After he arrived in this era, it took him a long time to get used to the suspicious relationships within S.H.I.E.L.D.

Nick Fury only ever speaks three-tenths of what he means, even to himself, the so-called "Captain America".

Here, in this company that Fu Rui criticized as "only good at putting on a show," he felt the same unconditional trust he had felt in the trenches back then.

"Thank you, Anthony."

Steve drank the milk in his glass in one gulp and slammed the empty glass down on the table.

"I'll be back as soon as possible."

"No rush. I think the students will be more willing to let Angela lead them in yoga these days, rather than being forced to run ten kilometers by you," Azu joked.

Steve smiled, turned around, and strode out of the office.

"Gained 10000 special popularity points! (From Steve Rogers)"

……

Upper Potomac River, Maryland.

The cold wind swirled fallen leaves, pattering against the safe house hidden deep in the dense forest.

The area within a 1000-meter radius is riddled with infrared sensors and pressure-sensitive landmines.

This is one of Brock Rumlow's sanctuaries, and also a manifestation of his carefulness.

The lights were off inside.

Rumlow sat shirtless in the dimly lit living room, using the moonlight streaming in through the window to clean the small wounds on his body with alcohol.

He picked up a bottle of whiskey, tilted his head back, and took a big gulp. The spicy liquid burned his throat, slightly relieving his tense nerves.

Pierce's "cleaning" operation temporarily stabilized the situation, but he knew it was just the calm before the storm.

The interior of S.H.I.E.L.D. is already a volcano about to erupt, and he is the one sitting in the crater.

"Click!"

With a soft click, Rumlow's movements froze instantly.

His intuition as a top agent made the hairs on his body stand on end.

That was an intuition honed through years of living on the edge.

It's too quiet.

The chirping of insects in the forest had disappeared sometime ago.

Rumlow slammed down the bottle, drew his Glock from his waist with lightning speed with his right hand, and grabbed the tactical dagger from the table with his left.

He held his breath and, like a wary cheetah, slowly moved toward the window.

The external sensors did not trigger an alarm.

The pressure-sensitive mine did not detonate.

Everything on the surveillance footage is normal.

But the suffocating feeling of being targeted by a top predator only grew stronger.

"Who's there?"

Rumlow gave a low shout into the dark corridor.

No one answered.

Only the mournful sound of the wind blowing through the chimneys could be heard.

"Click."

A slight cracking sound came from above.

Rumlow suddenly looked up, raised his gun, and fired!

"Bang! Bang! Bang!"

Three bullets pierced the ceiling in a triangular pattern.

Wood chips flew everywhere.

next second.

"BOOM—!!!"

The entire ceiling collapsed with a roar.

A dark shadow, carrying splinters of wood and dust, crashed heavily onto the floor.

Rumlow reacted extremely quickly, dodging the landing point with a side roll, and then fired three more shots.

"Bang! Bang! Bang!"

Three bullets, all hitting their mark at close range, sparks flashing briefly in the darkness.

By the dim light of the fire, Rumlow could make out the intruder.

In that instant, he felt his blood freeze and his breath stop.

That person...

He was wearing the exact same tactical vest as him.

She has the exact same hairstyle as him.

Even the faint scar on her face was perfectly accurate.

That was himself.

"What...what the hell is this?!"

Rumlow was horrified.

The "Rumlow" stared as he slowly straightened up, tilted his head, and moved with a strange fluidity in his stiff movements, as if he were performing some kind of calibration.

It opened its mouth.

"What...what the hell is this?!"

The voice was exactly the same. Even the tone of fear was imitated perfectly.

"Who are you?!"

Rumlow took a step back and switched to an armor-piercing magazine.

The man named "Rumlow" did not answer; he simply looked down at the bullet hole in his chest, from which a faint trace of blood was seeping.

He showed no sign of pain and even reached out his finger to pry out the bullet.

"What...are you?!" Rumlow asked again, his voice filled with terror.

The "Rumlow" looked up, a mocking smile on his lips that was exactly the same as Rumlow's usual expression.

"I am your Pro Max."

Their voices, intonations, and even that distinctive nasal tone were completely identical.

"Hold!"

Without another word, Rumlow raised his gun and fired a burst of shots.

But he discovered a horrifying truth.

The first time, the other party simply endured it.

The second time, the opponent began to employ subtle tactical evasion.

the third time……

When Rumlow tries to use a tactical roll to reach the shotgun under the bed.

The clone made the exact same move!

The other party is studying!

And faster and more accurate than him!

"Bang!"

A large foot slammed into Rumlow's chest, and the sound of bones cracking rang out.

"ah--!!"

Rumlow screamed as the shotgun slid out of his hand.

The clone picked up the shotgun, skillfully cocked it with one hand, and moved with the same grace as Rumlow had practiced countless times in the mirror.

"Cough cough..." Rumlow spat out a mouthful of blood and looked at the other person in shock.

This power reminded him of Steve Rogers!

However, the clone did not rush to finish off the enemy.

He simply stood there, assuming a fighting stance.

That pose...

Rumlow's pupils contracted sharply.

That was his most proficient Krav Maga starting stance: lowering his center of gravity, protecting his head with his left hand, and probing with his right.

"Come here." The clone beckoned to him.