CHAPTER FOUR
" in pursuit "

ᯓ★

baltimore, MD ━━ january 2014

SHE ran until her legs gave out.

Her chest heaved as she collapsed onto the cold pavement of a side street, lungs burning and vision swimming. The memory of Marlene's lifeless eyes was a brand behind her ribs, every heartbeat sending another jolt of panic through her body. The red dot. The gunshot. The metal arm. Her mind couldn't piece it all together. All she knew was that she needed help.

Rowan staggered to her feet, biting back the wave of dizziness. There was only one person she could go to.

Lou.

The early morning sky had shifted to a pale, bruised grey by the time she reached Lou's corner store. The neon sign buzzed faintly in the window, but the place was locked. Rowan pounded on the door, each strike a desperate prayer.

"Lou!" she rasped. "Lou, open up!"

Her reflection stared back at her from the glass: wild eyes, hair matted with sweat, bloodstained clothes. She looked like a cornered animal.

"Come on," she whispered, slamming her palm against the door again.

Footsteps approached from inside. The locks clicked, and the door cracked open.

"Rowan?" Lou's face appeared in the gap, bleary-eyed and confused. "What the hell are you—"

She pushed past him into the store. "I need your help. Please."

"Whoa, whoa." He shut the door, bolting it behind them. "You're bleeding. Jesus, kid, what happened?"

Rowan shook her head, backing toward the counter. "I can't explain right now. I just... I need to get to D.C. today. It's life or death."

Lou ran a hand through his greying hair. "Slow down. D.C.? What's going on?"

Her breath hitched. The words stuck in her throat until they burst out. "This isn't my blood. Marlene's dead."

The silence was suffocating.

"What?" Lou stepped forward, his mouth opening and closing as if trying to find a different version of what she'd said. "Dead? How?"

"I can't tell you," Rowan said, voice cracking. "But it wasn't an accident. Someone killed her. And now they're after me."

"The gangs?" Lou asked, already reaching for his phone. "Is this about those punks from the school? Or maybe someone—"

"No," Rowan interrupted. "This isn't about that. It's bigger."

His hand hovered over the phone. "What do you mean bigger? We have to call the cops."

"No!" Rowan lunged across the counter, grabbing his wrist. "They can't help me. Please, Lou. I need to get to D.C. I need to find someone named Nick Fury."

Lou's forehead creased in confusion, but he set the phone down. "Nick Fury? Who the hell is that?"

"I don't know," Rowan admitted. "Marlene said he could help me."

Lou exhaled heavily and rubbed his face. "Shit." He paced the narrow aisle for a moment before pulling out his wallet. He thumbed through the bills and handed her a wad of cash. "It's not much. Might get you on a bus to Union Station."

Rowan took the money with trembling fingers. "Thank you," she said softly. "For... everything."

"Yeah, well, you'd do the same," Lou said, though his voice was rough. He hesitated. "The other kids at the home—"

"Look after them if you can," Rowan said, tears burning her eyes. "They'll need someone now. And if anyone asks... You didn't see me."

Lou nodded, jaw tight. "You be careful, kid."

She nodded, shoved the cash into her pocket, and turned for the door.

The street outside was empty, but her skin crawled as she stepped into the open. She broke into a run once more, heart thundering.

Rowan pushed through the crowded concourse of Penn Station, her hood pulled low and her pulse hammering in her ears. The station was a chaotic blur of bodies and noise: announcements crackled over the intercom, travelers wheeled suitcases past kiosks, and vendors called out the day's specials. It was the kind of overwhelming, anonymous energy she was in need of right now.

Her fingers tightened around the wad of cash Marlene had given her, now crumpled and damp with sweat. She reached the ticket counter, trying to steady her breathing.

"One ticket to D.C.," she said, voice hoarse.

The attendant barely glanced at her as he slid the ticket across the counter. "Next train leaves in fifteen minutes. Track 7."

"Thanks," Rowan mumbled. She stuffed the ticket into her jacket pocket and turned away, forcing herself not to look over her shoulder.

The trek to Track 7 was a gauntlet of noise and motion. The overhead lights seemed too bright, her vision blurring at the edges. She ducked through the turnstile, descended the metal stairs, and found the train already boarding. It was nearly full, with passengers jostling for space.

Rowan slipped into a seat by the window, pressing herself against the cold glass. The train lurched forward a minute later, pulling out of the station and leaving Baltimore behind.

She squeezed her eyes shut, heart racing. The events of the past few hours crashed over her like a riptide: Marlene's panicked voice, the red dot on the wall, the crack of gunfire. The memory of Marlene's lifeless eyes made her throat close. She pressed her knuckles into her temples, trying to block it out.

But she couldn't.

The ringing in her ears grew louder, a high-pitched whine that made her head pound. Her breaths came shallow and fast. Panic dug its claws into her chest, unfamiliar and suffocating. Her body was tough, conditioned to handle pain and adrenaline. But this was different—as if her system didn't know how to process the sheer weight of what had happened.

Marlene was dead.

A government kill squad was after her.

She had a mother she'd never met, and now she'd never be able to ask Marlene about her.

Rowan opened her eyes and stared at her reflection in the window: pale skin, shadowed eyes, jaw clenched tight. Her ears still rang with the sound of gunfire.

The world had cracked wide open beneath her feet, revealing layers she'd never known existed. STRIKE. S.H.I.E.L.D. Assassins with metal arms.

And her.

Her heightened abilities, scrapes on her knees healing within minutes and always seeming capable of perceiving every little detail around her. She'd chalked it up to genetics, or maybe just stubbornness. Now it was clear she'd been lying to herself. The strange abilities she'd kept hidden for years weren't normal—they were part of something bigger.

The Avengers flashed through her mind: Stark, Banner, Romanoff, Rogers, Barton. The Norse God. Ordinary people transformed into something extraordinary. People who could bend metal and fly through the sky and fight off alien invasions. The world had changed when they arrived, gone from normal to something out of one of Rowan's collectible comic books.

Maybe she was part of that weirdness. Maybe she'd been part of it from the moment Elena Baumann left her in Marlene's arms.

Her stomach turned.

The thought of being connected to that world didn't excite her; it scared her. She didn't want fame or power. She wanted answers. And right now, the only name she had was Nick Fury.

The train sped toward Washington, D.C., as Rowan clutched the scar on her wrist and tried to breathe through the chaos in her head.

⭑

Rowan stepped off the train into the heart of Washington, DC, the sticky summer air wrapping around her like a wet blanket. The city's energy hit her immediately: the hum of traffic, the shuffle of commuters, and the faint, metallic rattle of construction somewhere nearby. It was overwhelming after the relative quiet of Baltimore, but she kept moving, forcing herself to blend into the crowd.

She had no idea where to go. No plan, no contacts, just a name: Nick Fury.

Rowan found a kiosk near the exit and grabbed a free map, unfolding it with shaking hands. DC sprawled across the paper in a maze of streets and landmarks, but her eyes went straight to the government buildings clustered near Pennsylvania Avenue. Her pulse quickened. That was where she'd start.

The small stash of cash from Lou was still tucked into her jacket pocket, and her stomach twisted as if reminding her she hadn't eaten since... God, she couldn't even remember. Her body, as enhanced as it might be, still needed fuel. Spotting a crowded cafe on the corner, she ducked inside.

The scent of coffee and toasted bagels hit her like a wave, and she ordered the cheapest thing she could: a plain bagel and black coffee. Her hands were steady as she paid, but her mind raced. After using the bathroom and cleaning the blood from her shirt, hidden by her jacket, she found a seat by the window, shoulders hunched and eyes darting toward every uniformed figure passing by.

Her stomach growled as she ate, but she barely tasted the food. Her ears buzzed faintly from exhaustion and the aftermath of the adrenaline still lodged in her veins. She wished she had her headphones. Music always helped drown out the noise and settle her thoughts. But her phone was gone, and the comforting hum of her playlist was just another thing she'd lost in the last twenty-four hours.

The coffee scalded her tongue, but she drank every drop. Energy crackled beneath her skin as she forced herself to focus. Her gaze flicked to the street beyond the window. It was the usual mix of tourists, locals, and office workers... until she spotted a cluster of men standing near a slate-grey building across the street.

Suits, briefcases, sunglasses. Standard DC attire. But behind them stood three figures dressed in tactical gear, standing just a little too still. Their eyes swept the street like predators scanning for prey.

Rowan's breath caught. "Bingo," she muttered.

Her instincts screamed that these people weren't ordinary security guards. The way they held themselves, the discreet comms units hooked around their ears, the tension in their stances—they were professionals. And professionals meant they likely knew something.

After finishing the last bite of her bagel, she headed outside, circling the government building across the street until she found a less crowded alley nearby. She positioned herself so she was visible just beyond the edge of the alley, loitering with deliberate awkwardness. It didn't take long before one of the armoured guards noticed her. She caught his gaze, froze for half a second, then turned and bolted into the alley.

Heavy footsteps pounded after her.

Rowan dashed past a dumpster, then cut a sharp turn into a dead end. She spun around as the guard skidded to a stop. His visor reflected the dim alley light.

"What are you doing back here?" the guard demanded.

Rowan didn't answer. Instead, she grabbed a loose brick from the ground and hurled it at his head. The man ducked, and in that moment, she lunged forward, using every ounce of her strength. She slammed into his torso, knocking him into the wall with a sickening thud. The guard crumpled to the ground, groaning.

Panting, Rowan quickly patted down his pockets until she found a pager-like device. The screen flickered to life with a series of names and locations. Most were unfamiliar, but one stood out immediately: Nicholas J. Fury.

Her heart raced. He was nearby.

She sprinted out of the alley and followed the coordinates on the device through a maze of streets. Rowan wiped her sweaty palms on her jeans. The pager confirmed it—Fury was right there. But how was she supposed to get his attention without getting herself shot on sight?

"Alright," she muttered. "Think, Rowan. Don't screw this up."

Pressing herself against the corner of the building, she peeked around to spot the black SUV. Its tinted windows reflected the chaos of downtown D.C.—pedestrians rushing past, a street musician strumming near the curb, taxis blaring their horns. Her pulse pounded as she tightened her grip on the stolen tracker.

Okay. Just go for it.

Without giving herself time to second-guess the plan, Rowan bolted from the alley. She sprinted across the sidewalk and skidded to a stop beside the driver's side window. Panting, she banged her fist against the glass.

"Hey! I know you're in there!" she shouted, voice wild with desperation. "I need to talk to you right now!"

The window didn't move. The SUV sat still, the engine running, as if the driver intended to ignore her completely.

Rowan banged the window again, harder. "I mean it! I know who you are! Nicholas Fury, right? I have something you need to see!"

For a few agonizing seconds, nothing happened. Then the window hummed as it lowered just a crack, revealing a single wary eye beneath the brim of a leather cap.

"What the hell is this?" Fury asked flatly.

Rowan held up the tracker. "I found this." Fury looked confused—maybe even alarmed—but she kept talking, words tumbling out in a rush. "Someone's after me. And Marlene Gail told me to find you."

Fury's eye narrowed. His jaw tightened as he scanned the street behind her. "Get in the back. Now."

Rowan exhaled shakily and yanked the door open. She climbed into the backseat and barely had time to close the door before she felt the cold barrel of a gun press against her knee.

"Hands where I can see 'em," Fury said.

Rowan raised her hands, tracker still clutched in her right. "Okay, yeah, fair."

"Start talking," Fury ordered as he adjusted the rearview mirror to watch her.

"I'm Rowan," she said, voice trembling. "Rowan Gail. Marlene Gail sent me. She told me to find you... that I could trust you."

"Marlene Gail," Fury repeated, his lips pressing into a thin line. "What was she to you?"

"She was my guardian. Or—foster mother, I guess. I've been with her for as long as I can remember." Rowan hesitated, then added, "But she told me—just yesterday—that she used to know and work with my real mother. Elena Baumann."

Fury paused at the name. His expression shifted—something flickering behind his eye, as if he had come to a realization.

"And where's Marlene now?" he asked.

Rowan swallowed hard. "She's dead."

The gun in Fury's hand didn't move, but his eye did. They flicked toward the tracker, then back to her. "Who?"

"Something called STRIKE, I'm pretty sure. You should know them well." Her voice cracked slightly as the memory of the morning played out in her head, "A guy with a metal arm did it. And they were looking for me."

Fury cursed under his breath and lowered the gun, though he didn't put it away. He shifted into gear, the SUV rolling forward with smooth precision.

"Where are we going?" Rowan asked, glancing nervously out the window.

"Somewhere safe," Fury answered. "Somewhere we can actually talk."

Rowan bit her lip. "So... you know what's going on, then?"

"Not much," Fury said. "But you just dropped the names of two of my ex-operatives. One retired, the other," he glanced at her through the front mirror, "disappeared almost twenty years ago."

Rowan's brow furrowed. "You're talking about Elena."

Fury gave a slight nod but didn't elaborate.

The streets blurred past them, the city's monuments towering in the distance. Fury tapped a control on the dashboard, and the windows darkened further.

"Stay low," he instructed. "My windows are tinted, but we can't risk anyone seeing you. Especially not out here."

Rowan slid down in her seat, heart pounding. The tracker lay in her lap, its tiny screen blinking with unfamiliar names.

Outside, the city moved on like normal. But Rowan knew normal was gone. Possibly forever.

As Fury drove through the maze of Washington, Skyscrapers loomed on either side of the road, and the streets buzzed with midday activity, but she was mostly focused on his reflection in the front mirror. The most notable thing about him was the black eye patch covering his left eye, the skin around it scarred and taut. She wondered what he'd gone through to end up with a mark like that.

"Activating communications encryption protocol," the car's smooth, mechanical voice announced.

"Open secure line zero-four-zero-five," Fury commanded.

"Confirmed."

A few moments later, a voice crackled over the speakers. "This is Hill."

"I need you here in D.C. Deep shadow conditions," Fury said.

"Give me four hours."

"You have three. Over."

The car rolled to a stop at a red light. Fury's fingers tapped the wheel as he glanced sideways at the police cruiser beside them. Two officers sat inside, their gazes locked on his SUV with far too much interest. Rowan shrank lower into the seat.

"Want to see my lease?" Fury muttered toward the officers.

The police car's siren gave a single sharp wail before they drove off. Fury sighed in relief and pressed the gas when the light turned green. But the moment the car moved, another police vehicle slammed into them from the side.

Metal screeched, glass cracked, and Rowan swore as she was thrown into the door.

"What the hell?!" she gasped, heart hammering.

Fury's eyes narrowed as he tried to steer out of the way. The SUV lurched forward, but more police cars swarmed them from every direction. Tires screeched; the sharp crash of metal colliding echoed around them.

"Fracture detected," the car's voice intoned. "Recommend anesthetic injection."

Fury gritted his teeth and jabbed a syringe into his arm while Rowan ducked as low as she could. A black SWAT truck screeched to a stop ahead of them, and armoured figures spilled out, armed to the teeth.

"D.C. Metro Police dispatch shows no units in this area," the computer added.

Rowan peeked over the backseat. "These creeps found me already?!"

"This isn't just about you now," Fury said, eye sharp. "Get me out of here!" he barked at the car.

Gunfire erupted from all sides. The SUV shook under the relentless onslaught of bullets.

"Propulsion systems offline," the car reported.

"Then reboot, dammit!" Fury snapped. Outside, the armour on the SUV began to weaken. The mercenaries moved in, hauling out a battering ram.

"That doesn't look good," Rowan muttered.

The ram slammed into the driver's side window with a thunderous crack. The glass held—barely—but spiderwebbed under the force. Rowan cringed as her head knocked against the door.

"Window integrity compromised," the car warned.

"That doesn't sound good," Rowan groaned.

"You think?" Fury snapped. Sweat glistened on his forehead as he shifted painfully in his seat. "How long to propulsion?" The battering ram smashed into the glass again.

"Window integrity: nineteen percent. Offensive measures advised."

"Wait," Fury said through clenched teeth.

Another impact rocked the car.

"What are you waiting for?!" Rowan cried in disbelief.

"Window integrity: one percent."

"Now!" Fury barked.

A minigun emerged from the dashboard with a whir, spitting bullets at the attackers. The armoured truck exploded in a fiery blast, taking out several mercenaries. Fury didn't stop; he fired until the remaining gunmen dove for cover.

"Propulsion systems now online," the computer announced.

"Full acceleration!" Fury ordered.

The car surged backward, tires screeching, before whipping forward with dizzying force. Fury swerved through traffic as police cruisers gave chase.

"Get me Agent Hill," Fury said, eyes locked on the road.

"Communications array damaged."

"What's not damaged?"

"Air conditioning is fully operational."

Rowan let out a breathless, disbelieving laugh. "Great. That's gonna save us."

The pursuing cars closed in. Fury wove through the lanes, crashing into smaller vehicles to create a barrier. A hail of gunfire followed them as they sped onto the Roosevelt Bridge.

"Traffic ahead," the car warned.

"Give me an alternate route."

"Traffic alert on Roosevelt Bridge. All vehicles stopped. 17th Avenue clear in three blocks."

"We're not gonna make it," Rowan murmured, watching the line of stationary cars stretch across the bridge.

"Hold on," Fury said.

He floored the accelerator, ramming through cars as they squealed and skidded around him. The mercenaries weren't far behind. Fury's SUV smashed through the last car and skidded onto 17th Avenue.

The pursuing vehicles didn't slow. They flanked Fury's car on both sides, bumping into the doors, trying to force him into a spin.

"Warning: approaching intersection."

The SUV burst through the intersection, shaking off one of the tailing cars. The second swerved into a lamppost. Fury kept going, but his expression darkened when he saw what awaited them ahead.

A lone figure stood in the middle of the street. A dark jacket obscured most of their form, but Rowan's eyes locked on the gleam of metal where their left arm should have been.

"Who—" she started.

The figure raised a compact launcher and fired. The device slammed into the underside of the SUV.

"Get down!" Fury roared.

The bomb detonated. The SUV flipped end over end, crashing to the pavement with a sickening crunch. The world blurred. Rowan's head hit the ceiling, then the door, then the floor as the car came to a stop, upside-down.

Her vision dimmed. Smoke poured through the shattered windows. Groaning, she tried to move, but the seatbelt trapped her. From the haze of her peripheral vision, she saw Fury moving. He reached across the car's interior, yanked open a hidden compartment in the floor, and glanced at her.

"Come on," he rasped, grabbing her by the collar.

She tried to get her legs under her. The sound of approaching footsteps echoed like a death knell.

"Move!" Fury ordered.

Rowan felt herself being dragged through the hole in the floor. The coolness of concrete beneath her palms grounded her just as a shadow loomed above them. Fury kicked the hatch closed, sealing them beneath the street.

Above, metal footsteps crunched over broken glass, and the attacker's old eyes searched for his prey.

⭑

When they finally emerged aboveground, Rowan took a deep breath, steadying herself after the chaos. The city hummed around them, a stark contrast to the violence they'd just escaped. She glanced at Fury, who was hunched over, breathing heavily, his injuries catching up to him.

"Well, that was fun," she muttered, rubbing the side of her head. "Where do we go now?"

Fury exhaled sharply, straightening despite the pain. "I have a place."

Rowan raised an eyebrow but didn't question it. Instead, she stepped closer, subtly slipping one of his arms over her shoulder to help support him. Fury stiffened slightly, clearly unused to the help, but he didn't push her away. As they started moving, he stole a glance at her—mostly unharmed, despite everything that had just happened. He had seen people walk away from worse, sure, but there was something strange about how quickly she was recovering. He didn't comment on it, though, and instead focused on getting them to their destination.

After a long, careful trek through the streets of D.C., they finally stopped in front of—of all things—a regular apartment building.

Rowan looked up at it, unimpressed. "Really? This is your big hiding spot?"

Fury shot her a look. "We're not hiding yet. We're waiting for someone."

She scoffed but didn't argue, following him up a few flights of stairs. He moved with a practiced ease, even through the pain, but she could tell he was pushing himself. When they reached a particular door, Fury didn't bother knocking. Instead, with a smooth, practiced motion, he pickpocketed the lock and let them inside.

Rowan blinked. "Okay, breaking and entering? Love that for us."

"Be quiet," he ordered, stepping inside first.

The apartment was surprisingly ordinary. A mix of modern and vintage—sleek furniture, but also old posters, books that looked well-worn, and little signs of a life lived here. It wasn't at all what she expected. As Fury immediately started sweeping the room, checking for bugs or hidden threats, Rowan let her curiosity get the better of her and wandered further in, eyeing the space around her.

Rowan glanced back at Fury, still scanning the apartment with sharp, practiced movements, before turning her attention to the framed photograph. It rested on a simple wooden shelf, propped up between a couple of old books. The glass was slightly dusty, like it hadn't been touched in a while.

She leaned in.

Two men in uniform stood side by side. The one on the left looked uncomfortable, his dress gear too big on his frame, the fabric swallowing him up. He wasn't even looking at the camera, his head slightly turned, gaze set somewhere beyond the lens. The man on the right, however, faced forward with confidence, his uniform fitting him perfectly. He had a wide, easy smile, like he belonged there, like he knew exactly who he was.

The photo was grainy, black and white, clearly old. But something about it pulled at her. Familiar, but distant. A memory she wasn't sure she actually had.

Her fingers brushed against the frame, barely touching it. She frowned.

She knew these men.

Or at least, she felt like she did. But that didn't make any sense. There was no way she had ever seen them before. And yet, there was a strange, nagging pull in her gut, like she should remember them. Like their faces were buried somewhere deep, out of reach.

Behind her, Fury finally finished his sweep of the room and turned to face her. "What are you looking at?"

Rowan hesitated, her fingers curling slightly before she pulled her hand back. "Nothing," she said, straightening up. "Just a picture."

Fury narrowed his eye at her, but he let it go. "Come on. We don't have much time."

She cast one last glance at the photograph before turning away, the uneasy feeling still lingering in her chest.

There was a sudden clicking noise, followed by the unmistakable crackle of old music filtering through the air. The melody was tinny but grew louder, the notes filling the apartment in a way that felt intentional. Rowan turned her head toward the sound and found Fury slumped into one of the chairs, a stereo beside him playing the music. His expression was unreadable, and when she hesitated before asking, "Do you want to turn that down?" he didn't respond.

She figured it was for show, or maybe a cover—another layer of noise to keep anyone listening from hearing too much. Either way, it didn't seem like he was interested in answering any more of her questions.

Still, she crossed the room toward him, her eyes tracing over his injuries. The broken wrist was the worst of it, swollen and already turning an ugly shade of purple beneath his sleeve. He tensed slightly when she reached for it.

"You're hurt," Rowan said, matter-of-factly.

"You're not."

She blinked at him. "I... was."

"There you go."

Rowan exhaled sharply. "Can I help you or not?"

Fury studied her for a moment before finally relenting, extending his arm just enough for her to get a better look. Without proper lighting, and with the last remnants of daylight slipping away outside, it was hard to tell how bad the damage was. She was no medic, but she had enough experience tending to injuries—her own, mostly—to know that it wasn't a clean break.

As she gingerly pressed around the swelling, testing for any extreme reactions, Fury's voice broke the silence. "You been in a lot of fights before?"

Rowan hesitated, fingers pausing against his wrist. "Yes, but..."

She stopped herself. The mercenaries could still be listening. And even if they weren't, she had never told anyone about the way she healed, about how wounds that should have left scars faded within hours, how bruises disappeared almost as soon as they formed. The only person who knew was Marlene. Had been Marlene.

Could she trust Fury with that?

He didn't press her for an answer, but when she finally lifted her gaze to meet his, there was a sharpness in his expression—like he was putting two and two together about what she was, even without her saying a word.

A few more minutes passed in silence, the only sound in the dimly lit apartment coming from the old stereo still playing softly in the background. Then, from outside in the hall, there was a faint murmur of voices—a man and a woman engaged in small talk. Rowan barely paid attention at first, but beside her, Fury tensed, shifting slightly in his chair. She glanced at him, noticing the way his jaw clenched, his good hand gripping the armrest. It didn't take much to figure out that the apartment's resident had returned.

Fury gave a small, almost imperceptible motion, signalling for her to sit in the chair next to him. She hesitated but obeyed, sinking into the seat while keeping her ears trained on the door. The voices outside continued for a moment longer before fading as the unseen pair moved farther down the hall.

A beat of silence followed. Then, just faintly, Rowan heard the unmistakable sound of a window sliding open. She straightened slightly, heart pounding, but before she could react, Fury shot her a look. A silent message: It's okay.

She barely had time to process that reassurance before a tall, broad-shouldered figure turned the corner and stepped into view. The man was muscular, his blonde hair neatly combed back, and though his expression was cautious, it wasn't hostile. What stood out the most, however, was the shield—red, white, and blue, the iconic star gleaming even in the dim light.

Rowan's eyes widened in shock as she finally pieced together where they were.

"You brought me to Captain America's apartment?" she hissed under her breath, whipping her head toward Fury.

Now that she was really taking in the man before her, it was almost surreal. Steve Rogers. The Steve Rogers. A man who was supposedly ninety-four years old but looked no older than thirty. She had learned about him in school, read about him in history books, even swiped some of his old collector's cards from a pawn shop once.

Steve, however, wasn't looking at her in awe—he was looking at her with quiet scrutiny. His grip on the shield tightened slightly as his blue eyes studied her, wary and uncertain.

Fury, still slumped in his chair, didn't say a word.

Rowan cleared her throat and, after a long awkward pause, managed to mumble, "Uh. Hi."

Steve's gaze flicked between her and Fury. "Who's this?" he asked, his voice even but firm.

Fury finally exhaled and nodded toward Rowan. "She's with me."

That didn't seem to do much to ease Steve's concern, but he didn't press the issue—at least, not yet. Instead, he turned his attention back to Fury. "I don't remember giving you a key."

Fury let out a pained groan as he pushed himself upright in the chair. "You really think I'd need one?" He exhaled sharply. "My wife kicked me out."

Steve raised an eyebrow. "Didn't know you were married."

"A lot of things you don't know about me."

Steve held his gaze, unamused. "I know, Nick. That's the problem."

As he stepped into the living room to turn on the light, he finally got a good look at Fury—really looked at him. The injuries, the way he was holding his side, the way his wrist was stiff and swollen. Before he could say anything, Fury gave a sharp shake of his head not to come any closer.

Steve hesitated, then switched the light back off. A second later, Fury's phone screen glowed in the dark as he typed something out. He turned the screen toward Steve.

Ears everywhere.

Steve's jaw tightened, but he nodded.

Fury tapped at his phone again, then held it up.

S.H.I.E.L.D. compromised.

Steve took a slow breath through his nose, then looked from the phone back to Fury's face. "Who else knows about your wife?"

Fury's fingers moved across the screen again before he turned it around.

You and me.

Steve didn't respond right away. Fury shifted in his chair, standing up with his phone still in hand. His voice was quieter now, less of the usual bravado. "Just... my friends."

Steve met his gaze, searching. "Is that what we are?"

Fury held the look for a beat before answering. "That's up to you."

Suddenly, three gunshots rang out, tearing through the wall. Fury jerked violently as the bullets hit him, his body collapsing onto the floor.

"Down!" Steve shouted, and Rowan dove at the same time he did, both dropping behind cover. Her heart pounded as she scanned the room, trying to pinpoint the shooter's location. Steve was already moving, glancing out the window for a sign of their attacker before grabbing Fury and dragging him away from the windows.

Rowan, still low to the ground, crawled toward them. She could see the blood spreading beneath Fury, staining his shirt. His breaths were short, pained. With a shaking hand, he fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a small flash drive, pressing it into Steve's palm.

"Don't... trust anyone," he rasped before his eyes rolled back, and he went still.

Rowan swallowed hard, her fingers curling into fists. She barely had time to process before she heard a voice from the front of the apartment.

"Captain Rogers?"

Steve turned sharply, muscles tensing as a woman stepped inside, gun raised. She was blonde, young, and steady in her stance.

"Captain, I'm Agent 13 of S.H.I.E.L.D. Special Service," she said.

Steve frowned. "Kate?"

"I'm assigned to protect you."

"On whose order?" he asked, but she was already glancing past him, noticing Fury on the ground.

"His," she answered. She immediately moved to Fury, kneeling beside him and speaking into her radio. "Foxtrot is down, he's unresponsive. I need EMTs."

Rowan barely heard the response through the rush of blood in her ears.

It was him. The shooter. The one who had attacked them hours ago on the road. The one who had killed Marlene.

She barely registered the radio crackling again.

"Do you have a twenty on the shooter?"

Steve was already looking back toward the window, and Rowan followed his gaze. She caught only a glimpse of a shadowed figure before Steve's jaw clenched.

"Tell them I'm in pursuit."

Before Rowan could stop him, Steve smashed through the window and leapt out onto the fire escape, taking off after the assassin.

No, no, no—

Rowan pushed herself up and bolted after him.

"Hey!" Agent 13 called after her, but Rowan didn't stop.

She climbed out the window, gripping the metal railing and swinging herself onto the fire escape. Below her, Steve was already on the ground, running full speed. The assassin was ahead, moving fast, and Rowan gritted her teeth as she jumped down after them, rolling when she hit the pavement before pushing forward.

The chase led them into an office building, Steve smashing through walls with brute force, Rowan weaving through debris, keeping pace as best she could. She knew it was him—the masked man, the one who had ambushed them on the bridge. The one she had barely escaped not once, but twice.

The chase spilled onto the rooftop, the wind whipping at her face as she skidded to a stop behind Steve. He threw his shield at the assassin, but the man caught it in one swift move, as if he had done it a hundred times before.

Rowan's breath hitched.

The assassin barely hesitated before throwing the shield right back, forcing Steve to catch it. And then, in one fluid motion, he turned and jumped off the building, vanishing into the night.

Rowan ran to the edge and looked down, searching.

Gone.

Steve had run up beside her, witnessing the same thing. He took a step back from the edge of the rooftop, his grip tightening around his shield as he turned toward Rowan. She was still staring down at the street below, as if willing the masked assassin to reappear.

"Who are you?" Steve asked, his voice measured but firm. "Why were you with Fury?"

Rowan exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through her hair as she finally looked at him. "I know just as much as you do," she said quickly. "But I do know that whoever's behind this? They're bad people. Really bad people. And I don't know what the hell to do."

Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder as they neared. Steve didn't hesitate—he reached for her, his grip firm but not forceful as he guided her toward the stairwell.

"Come on."

Rowan didn't resist. She followed him down, heart hammering, her mind racing.

They barely made it outside before a team of armed agents swarmed in. A black SUV screeched to a stop, doors flying open. STRIKE agents—fully geared, rifles raised—immediately closed in.

Rowan skidded to a halt, breath catching in her throat.

"Oh shit," she muttered. "Not them again."

One of the agents stepped forward, gun still trained on her. "Rowan Gail, put your hands where we can see them."

Rowan swallowed, panic flickering across her face as she instinctively took a step back. "Steve—"

"What's going on here?" Steve asked, shifting slightly between her and the agents.

"We've been looking for her," another agent spoke up. "Rowan Gail, you're being taken into custody for acts of government conspiracy—"

Rowan's stomach twisted. She knew what was coming before he even said it.

"—and for the murder of Marlene Gail in Baltimore."

The words hit like a gunshot.

Rowan flinched, but she didn't get a chance to respond before the agents grabbed her. Rough hands yanked her forward, twisting her arms behind her back.

"Hey, easy," Steve said, his voice edged with suspicion as he watched them restrain her. "She's just a kid."

"She's dangerous," the agent replied coldly.

Rowan's pulse pounded in her ears as she struggled in their grip, panic surging through her. "Please—this isn't—"

The agents shoved her forward.

The last thing she saw before they dragged her toward the waiting SUV was the wary, calculating look in Steve Rogers' eyes.

And then the doors slammed shut behind her.

and so it begins...

rowan got to dc, was a bit chaotic (literally my favourite part to write in this chapter) and met fury and steve! poor rowan cant catch a break from bucky killing her allies, omg. hes just protective, okay?

i realized last chapter i hadnt edited thoroughly and that was so cringe to go back to and fix parts of dialogue and also the fact that there wasn't a chapter title 😭 so i hope i didnt miss anything this time as i publish it.

next time on positive match: an interrogation brought to you by yours truly, the black widow, and then lots more action featuring steve and rowan! its gonna be good 😙