The flames reached for Steve like claws.
He soared through the smoke, arms extended, boots trailing embers. Below him, the stairwell disintegrated into a storm of debris. Fire roared beneath his heels as metal and concrete collapsed in a domino of destruction.
Monroe's arm caught his.
The impact jolted through both of them, but Monroe didn't let go. His boots skidded on the Quinjet's ramp as he braced himself, muscles straining, smoke pouring in through the open hatch.
"Got you," he growled, pulling.
With one final heave, Steve was yanked inside. They tumbled across the floor together as the ramp began to retract. The Quinjet's thrusters flared, banking away from the tower just as another section of it gave out.
"Go!" Monroe shouted to the pilot. "We've got them!"
The aircraft veered hard to the right, pulling up and away. Through the reinforced windows, they watched the chaos unfold below.
The Triskelion, once the symbol of SHIELD's might, was crumbling into ash. Floors caved in. Support beams twisted and snapped like paper. Dust plumed into the sky. Fire engulfed entire wings. Sirens still screamed, distorted by radio interference and flames.
From the clouds above, the second helicarrier—powerless, unmanned, rudderless—drifted sideways in a slow, silent arc. Its hull was blackened, its engines dead. It dipped low over the Potomac, scraping the tops of broken buildings before finally slamming into the water with a thunderous, echoing splash. A wave surged up the shoreline.
Inside the Quinjet, Steve lay on his back, chest rising and falling with labored breaths. His uniform was torn, ash smeared across his face.
Bucky knelt beside him, eyes scanning his friend with concern.
"You always this dramatic?" he asked, half-smiling.
Steve blinked up at him, managing a weak smirk. "Only when I know you're watching."
They both laughed—short, exhausted, real.
But it didn't last.
The cockpit comm buzzed, static and tension behind the voice.
"SHIELD command has been compromised. Public broadcasts are going live. Files are everywhere. The world knows."
Monroe moved to the front, gripping the back of the pilot's seat. The red light from the dashboard reflected off his face. He turned slowly toward the rear of the cabin.
"We're not going back to base," he said. "There is no base. They'll be hunting us now—what's left of SHIELD... and what's left of HYDRA. Everything's exposed. Everyone's exposed."
Steve sat up slowly, leaning his back against the hull. He looked across the cabin.
"What about Alexander?"
At the far end of the Quinjet, Alexander sat alone near the ramp. He hadn't spoken. He hadn't moved.
His eyes were locked on the horizon beyond the smoke, watching the world turn orange in the fading light.
The shadows at his boots shimmered. Faintly. Like embers.
A silent notification hovered in the corner of his vision, unseen by the others:
[NEW ABILITY AVAILABLE: SYSTEM CLASS — ???]
He didn't blink.
He didn't react.
He remembered the moment before the final override—the feeling when the system surged.
Inside the control room, with time running out and the enemy bearing down, he had felt it. A stillness. Like everything in the world had paused for him.
[PERCEPTION BOOST: SHADOW MODE ENABLED]
The world had slowed. He could see every vibration in the wall. Every tremor in the floor. Every breath of his enemy.
His shadows had moved before he even commanded them.
Now, he felt that power stirring again—only stronger. Unstable. Undefined.
The system wasn't finished.
And neither was he.
Outside the window, sirens wailed across Washington. The Potomac churned. Smoke swallowed the skyline.
The world had changed.
And they were already on the run.
End of Chapter 112
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