Courtyard House: Initial Donation of 50 Million

Inside the S.H.I.E.L.D.'s dedicated medical facility, in a sterile, temperature-controlled ward, the instruments emit a soft, dim light, and the vital signs monitor a steady, flowing curve.

After a night of meticulous resuscitation, serum stabilization, and cell activation treatment by the S.H.I.E.L.D. medical team, the body, frozen for seventy years, finally broke free from the ancient icy confinement.

Steve Rogers, lying on the hospital bed, trembled slightly as his consciousness, which had been dormant for decades, slowly returned.

It was as if he had been in an incredibly long dream.

There were no biting glaciers or endless darkness in the dream, only the damp evening breeze of 1940s New York and the soft clatter of Peggy Carter's boots on the floor. The scene paused on the eve of the pursuit of Red Skull. The desk lamp in the operations office cast a warm yellow glow. Carter reached out and straightened his collar, her fingertips brushing against his chin. She didn't say much, just looked up at him, her tone calm yet resolute: "Mission over. Save a dance for me."

He remembered the color of her lipstick, the distant sound of a ship's horn outside the window, and how he had nodded solemnly at the time.

But the dream churned in an instant, all tenderness vanishing. Howling winds, out-of-control fighter jets, the vast, boundless Arctic glaciers ahead, and the eerie figure of the Red Skull disappearing into the light of the Cosmic Cube flashed by one after another. To prevent the bombs from falling on his homeland, to protect his country and the world behind him, he resolutely pushed the fighter jet into a dive, carrying his unfinished promise and his heart full of worries, crashing headlong into the frigid depths of the ocean.

Cold, suffocating, and dark became the final colors of the dream.

"Well……"

A very low groan escaped his lips, and Steve abruptly opened his eyes.

The dull pain from the icy water still lingered in his lungs; his chest rose and fell slightly, his fingertips unconsciously curled into fists, and the muscles in his shoulders and back tensed silently. This was a battlefield instinct etched into his bones—no matter when he woke up, his first reaction was always alertness, always to check if his surroundings were safe. Seventy years of being frozen in the ice had not dulled his vigilance; he remained the soldier who had emerged from the alleys of Brooklyn, never willing to relax even for a moment.

His gaze slowly focused, and what came into view was a retro-style hospital room with a strong sense of history. The yellowed walls, the old-fashioned iron-framed hospital bed, the retro desk lamp, and the old newspapers from the 1940s on the table—all the furnishings were a precise replica of the era before he fell asleep, deliberately creating a familiar atmosphere.

An old wooden radio not far away crackled to life, broadcasting crisp baseball commentary at a leisurely pace, full of vintage charm.

Steve, supporting his aching body, slowly sat up. The body modified by the Super Soldier Serum had extremely strong regenerative abilities; in a short while, most of the stiffness and fatigue in his body dissipated, leaving only a dazed and confused state deep in his consciousness.

He looked around, a hint of disorientation flashing in his eyes.

It felt so familiar—the familiar furnishings, the familiar broadcasts, the familiar atmosphere of the era. It was as if he had never gone to the Arctic, never fallen into a glacier, never fallen into a deep sleep, and everything remained in 1945, the year the war had not yet ended.

However, the veteran's keen intuition, honed by years of experience and meticulous thinking, made him feel a sense of unease.

It's too perfect, too deliberately perfect, lacking any trace of the vicissitudes and warmth of war, eerily quiet.

He listened quietly to the baseball commentary on the radio for a while; the pitcher's name, the score difference, the cheers of the audience—every detail was precisely imprinted into his memory.

Steve's gaze slowly darkened.

This was the match in May 1941. He remembered it clearly; he hadn't received the serum injection yet, and he stood for the entire match in a squeezed spot on the far side of the stands, clutching the spare change he had saved up for a week.

He joined the army after that, and his deployment to Northern Europe was several years later. It was impossible for him to hear the live broadcast of a match from four years ago again after a mission was over.

The lie was exposed from the very beginning.

Just as Steve was on edge and on guard, the doorknob of the ward turned gently, and a female officer dressed in a 1940s-style military uniform pushed the door open and entered. Her makeup was neat, her expression was gentle, and she deliberately imitated the demeanor of a wartime medical worker.

Looking at the awakened Steve, a barely perceptible hint of tension flashed in the female officer's eyes, before she spoke gently, "Captain Rogers, you're awake. How are you feeling? Is there anything wrong with your body?"

Steve didn't offer any further response. He looked directly at the other person, his voice hoarse and low, carrying the coldness and scrutiny unique to a veteran: "Where am I now?"

The female officer smiled gently and gave a concise and deliberately perfunctory reply: "It's a post-operative recovery room in New York. You were wounded on a mission and are recuperating here."

These perfectly plausible words did nothing to calm Steve; on the contrary, they intensified his vigilance. Having experienced countless battlefield lies, intelligence deceptions, and enemy disguises, he had long since honed his ability to distinguish truth from falsehood. The other party's gentleness seemed too deliberate; the panic in his eyes was impossible to conceal.

Steve looked at her, his tone calm yet carrying an undeniable force: "I'll ask you one more time, where am I?"

The relentless questioning completely threw the female officer off balance, her panic intensifying. She forced herself to calm down, attempting to continue her feigned reassurance: "Captain, I don't quite understand what you mean. This is indeed a post-operative recovery room in New York. You can rest and recover without worry."

"No, you understand."

Steve interrupted her directly, each word clear and distinct, his gaze fixed on the female officer's face, his sharp eyes seeming to pierce through any pretense: "This baseball game was in May 1941. I know it because I was there."

He spoke with pauses and pauses, every word was true, without the slightest hesitation.

The air fell into a deathly silence.

The female officer's gentle smile froze completely. Her body stiffened, and she felt a chill run down her spine and become completely flustered under Steve's intensely piercing gaze. Instinctively, she clenched her fists, her fingertips pressing tightly against the miniature signal transmitter hidden in her sleeve, her heart pounding wildly.

The pretense was completely exposed.

Seeing the other person's silent, flustered, and guilty appearance, Steve's last shred of hope was completely shattered.

Everything here is fake. The rooms, the furnishings, the announcements, the medical staff—it's all a deliberate fabrication to deceive him.

Steve didn't speak again. He threw back the covers and got out of bed, his bare feet touching the cool floor as he walked step by step to the female officer. His posture was upright, his gaze sharp as a knife. There was no roar, no loss of control; he simply calmly repeated the words for the third time, yet it carried more weight than any shout:

"Where am I?"

This is the instinct of veterans when faced with an unknown scam—remain calm and focused, sticking to only one answer.

"Captain Steve, please calm down..." the female officer hurriedly tried to reassure him, her finger already pressing the alarm button on the signal transmitter.

Buzz—!

A piercing emergency alarm instantly blared throughout the corridor!

The next second, two fully armed and heavily armed S.H.I.E.L.D. agents kicked open the ward door, their movements swift and their demeanor fierce as they rushed towards Steve, attempting to subdue and control him.

The moment the two agents rushed at him, Steve instinctively sidestepped, raised his hand, deflected the force, and counterattacked. The movements were devoid of any fancy flourishes; they were all the simplest techniques for defeating an enemy, honed on the battlefield—blocking, striking the ribs, and ramming the shoulder, all executed in one fluid motion.

After two muffled thuds, the two people fell through the lightweight partition wall and fell silent.

Steve stopped and stood there, catching his breath slightly. He had been careful with his strength, only deflecting the force without killing; this was a principle ingrained in his very being.

He strode out of the broken partition wall, looked up, and his pupils instantly contracted.

Outside the wall was not the military hospital of the 1940s that he was familiar with, but a cold, advanced, and futuristic modern corridor with metal walls, smart sensor lights, and brand-new security equipment. Everywhere he looked was a strange sight he had never seen before.

All pretense has been shattered, and all illusions have vanished.

A silent unease and confusion welled up within him. Without further hesitation, Steve sprinted towards the exit of the passage. He wanted to escape this prison of lies and see the real world for himself.

Watching Steve's resolute retreating figure, the female officer behind her hurriedly grabbed her walkie-talkie and urgently issued a city-wide alert: "Attention all agents! Emergency alert! Target Steve Rogers has seen through the disguise and broken through the ward's security cordon. Intercept him immediately! Repeat, intercept him immediately!"

Alarms blared incessantly, and the entire S.H.I.E.L.D. building instantly went into high alert mode. Countless security agents and patrol personnel were mobilized, setting up checkpoints and blocking the way, attempting to stop Captain America from escaping.

Ordinary security cordons and manual interceptions are utterly ineffective against the super soldier. Steve is swift and energetic; the superhuman physique granted by the serum allows him to surpass ordinary people in endurance, speed, and explosive power. He nimbly moves through corridors, staircases, and emergency exits, avoiding all blockades and easily evading wave after wave of agents, without harming a single person, all in his pursuit of a swift escape and the discovery of the truth.

Within minutes, he broke through the building's security cordon, strode out of the building's doors, and stepped onto the streets of New York.

The moment he rushed out of the building, Steve abruptly stopped.

His eyes were met with towering glass buildings piercing the sky, unfamiliar cars whizzing by, and brightly dressed pedestrians hurrying along. Neon signs on both sides of the street flashed patterns he couldn't understand, and the air was filled with the unfamiliar smell of car exhaust.

This is not the New York he knows.

There were no familiar tram tracks, no corner bakery, and no familiar brick-red walls in the Brooklyn alleyways.

He stood on the sidewalk, his Adam's apple bobbing silently.

Seventy years.

This number felt real for the first time. It wasn't just a line of text in a file, or a sentence someone else said; it was a completely unfamiliar world before my eyes, a desolation where all familiar traces had been utterly erased.

He walked slowly down the street, his gaze sweeping over every building and every face of passersby, trying to find a trace of the past.

No.

There was nothing there.

Everyone else was moving forward, but he was frozen in the Arctic Ocean in 1945, missing out on an entire era.

Just as Steve was feeling lost and depressed, several specially made black SUVs sped up, precisely surrounding him and blocking him in the middle of the road. The doors opened, and a large number of fully armed S.H.I.E.L.D. agents quickly got out, guns drawn, and surrounded him, instantly creating an extremely tense atmosphere.

Steve instantly regained his composure, his veteran instincts kicking in again. His muscles tensed silently as he stared intently at the agents around him, ready to respond to any unexpected situation.

Just as tensions were about to rise, a steady, husky voice sounded slowly from behind, carrying a sense of reassurance and calmness: "Hey, veteran, don't be nervous."

Steve suddenly turned his head to look.

A black man wearing a long black trench coat and a black eye patch stood alone on the street not far away. He was composed and had a restrained aura. He was Nick Fury, the director of S.H.I.E.L.D.

Fury slowly stepped forward, standing in front of Steve. Looking at the original superhero before him, whose face was blank and whose eyes held a mixture of loss and wariness, Fury spoke sincerely, with a hint of apology: "Listen, I apologize for everything about the fake hospital room and the deliberate disguise. We just wanted you to gradually adapt to the world after you woke up, to avoid the sudden, overwhelming changes that your mind couldn't handle."

Steve's gaze was deep, his voice trembling slightly, as the worst possible guess already formed in his mind: "Adapt to what?"

Fury gazed at the confusion and determination in his eyes, remained silent for a moment, and then slowly revealed the cruel truth, each word clear and striking straight to the heart: "You've been asleep all along, Captain. Slept for seventy years."

Seventy years.

When those three words reached his ears, Steve didn't react for a moment.

He stared blankly at Fury, his mind blank for a few seconds.

Seventy years.

Not seven days, not seven months, but seventy years.

He didn't miss a mission, a vacation; he missed the lives of an entire generation. It was Carter's remaining years, Bucky's whereabouts, and everything and everyone he knew.

His fingertips trembled slightly, but he clenched his fist tightly, forcefully suppressing all the surging emotions. There was no dizziness, no breakdown. He simply stood there, silently watching the bustling street before him, his gaze vacant for a moment.

Carter... he should be gone by now.

The girl who said she would wait for him to dance for her never got to see him return.

Seeing his sudden loss of composure and pale face, Fury showed a rare hint of concern and asked softly, "Are you alright, Captain?"

Steve nodded slightly after a few seconds.

His voice was soft, slightly hoarse from just waking up, and tinged with an unconcealed melancholy.

"I'm fine."

He paused, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon, as if looking at something, yet also as if looking at nothing at all.

"Well... I missed a date."