Director Nick Fury drove his black Chevrolet SUV down the wide avenues of Washington, D.C.—the very heart of the nation—while being hunted by a group of police officers.
According to the city's surveillance and AI monitoring systems, there were no active law-enforcement units deployed in the area. And yet, with decades of battlefield intuition, Fury immediately recognized the truth: these weren't ordinary cops. Their movements, spacing, and coordination marked them as trained killers—people with military or elite tactical backgrounds.
Thanks to the near-indestructible build of his Chevrolet, Fury forced his way out of the encirclement and sped toward the Roosevelt Bridge, choosing what should have been a safe escape route.
Just as he allowed himself the slightest breath of relief, another assassin appeared ahead.
The man wore a mask, his expression cold and merciless. Without hesitation, he detonated an explosive that flipped Fury's SUV violently onto its side.
Certain that Fury couldn't escape, the masked assassin advanced at an unhurried pace.
But Fury had survived worse.
With a sharp hiss, a compact laser cutter ignited in his hand. He sliced through the asphalt beneath him and dropped straight into the sewer system below, vanishing from sight.
In the tangled underground waterways of Washington, Fury finally found temporary safety.
Relying on his familiarity with the sewer routes, Fury made his way to the one place he believed he could still trust.
Steve Rogers' apartment.
In a situation where enemies surrounded him from all sides, the only person Fury trusted was the man whose integrity bordered on stubbornness—Captain America.
-----
Steve returned late that night after leaving Sam Wilson. At the door, he ran into the nurse who lived across the hall. She was on the phone with her aunt, a large basket of laundry cradled in her arms.
"If you want, you can use my washing machine," Steve offered. "It's cheaper than the basement one."
"Oh? How much?" she asked with a smile.
"One cup of coffee."
She laughed. "Thanks, but I already carried everything downstairs. Besides, I just finished a shift in the infectious disease ward."
"I'll keep my distance," Steve said seriously, holding his hands apart.
"Hopefully not too far," she replied lightly.
After they parted, Steve unlocked his door—only for the nurse to remind him that his stereo was still on.
"Oh, right. Thanks."
Steve knew perfectly well the music wasn't supposed to be playing.
The faint sound drifting from inside meant only one thing.
Someone was already in his apartment.
Moving with caution, Steve entered through the window—and found Nick Fury, sitting casually in a chair, swallowed by darkness.
"I don't remember giving you a key," Steve said quietly.
"You think I need one?" Fury replied dryly. "My wife kicked me out."
"I didn't even know you were married."
"There's a lot you don't know about me."
Steve turned on the lamp—and froze.
Fury was covered in blood.
Fury immediately gestured for silence and switched the light back off. He spoke aloud about trivial things while silently typing messages to Steve on his phone.
We're being listened to. Everywhere.
"Sorry to bother you," Fury said out loud, glancing anxiously toward the window. "But I don't exactly have many options left."
S.H.I.E.L.D. had been compromised.
"How many people know about your 'wife'?" Steve asked—his meaning clear.
Just you. And me.
"Only… my friends," Fury said aloud, swaying slightly as he tried to stand.
"Do we count as friends?" Steve asked.
"That depends on you."
Suddenly, several armor-piercing rounds tore through the wall behind Fury, slamming into his body.
Steve reacted instantly, dragging Fury behind the reinforced interior wall.
Fury grabbed Steve's wrist and shoved a USB drive into his hand—the same one Natasha had recovered from the launch ship.
"Don't… trust… anyone…"
With those final words, Nick Fury lost consciousness.
Gunfire erupted outside.
The nurse from across the hall kicked in Steve's door, weapon raised.
"Captain, I'm Agent 13—Sharon Carter."
Seeing the gentle nurse transform into a S.H.I.E.L.D. operative was shocking—even under the circumstances.
"Who sent you?" Steve demanded.
"Him," Sharon replied, already kneeling beside Fury and performing emergency checks.
"He's badly injured—unresponsive. We need medical support now. Did you see the shooter?"
A shadow flashed past the blinds.
Steve shattered the window and gave chase.
After crashing through doors and windows across multiple buildings, Steve finally cornered the sniper on a rooftop one building away.
The masked man moved with terrifying speed—and had a metal arm.
He caught Steve's shield mid-air.
And threw it back.
Steve froze in shock.
Since waking in the modern era, no one—no one—had ever done that.
In that instant of hesitation, the sniper leapt from the building and vanished into the night.
-----
Natasha arrived at the hospital as soon as she received the news.
Inside the operating room, Nick Fury lay motionless, tubes and wires covering his body. He'd been hit multiple times—his survival uncertain.
"Will he make it?" Natasha whispered, her voice trembling.
"I don't know," Steve answered hollowly.
Hours earlier, Fury had been alive—arguing, commanding, infuriating. Now he hovered between life and death.
"Tell me about the sniper," Natasha said, needing distraction.
"He was fast. Strong. And he had a… metal arm."
"Ballistics?" she asked.
"Three shots. No trajectory. Untraceable," Agent Maria Hill replied over the phone. Fury's right hand, she had been coordinating nonstop.
"Former Soviet manufacture?" Natasha pressed.
"Yes," Hill said, studying Natasha closely. "You recognize it."
The surgery entered its final stage.
Everyone outside the operating room watched in tense silence.
Please… don't die, Nick, Natasha prayed silently.
God did not answer.
The doctor emerged and spoke the words that shattered the night:
"Time of death: 1:03 a.m."
Natasha stared at her reflection in the glass, forcing the tears back.
Steve stepped aside, gripping the USB drive tightly.
This was what Fury had died protecting.
And it could never—ever—fall into the wrong hands.
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