POV: Steve Rogers
Summary: After witnessing Garou's sparring, Steve meets privately with Nick Fury via secure comm. Fury wants to move Garou into deeper containment. Steve refuses. Garou said one word—"Hero"—and that's enough for Steve to believe there's still someone inside him worth reaching. But Fury sees something else: not a man searching for purpose, but a predator waiting for permission.
Steve watched the playback again.
He had seen it happen live—felt the vibration through the floor when Thor hit the mat. But watching it now, frame by frame, it still didn't make any sense.
No wind-up. No angle of leverage. Just a finger. A tap.
And the god of thunder dropped like he'd been hit by a truck.
Garou stood in the same position at the end as he had at the beginning.
That was the part that haunted Steve.
He didn't celebrate. Didn't gloat. Didn't even seem aware he'd won.
He just… was.
Steve leaned forward, elbows on his knees, watching Garou's silhouette on the screen like it might blink.
Behind him, a secure monitor activated.
Nick Fury's voice came through like gravel on steel. "You're late."
"I wasn't aware this was on the clock."
Fury appeared, grainy and shadowed. A secure line—encrypted, routed through four satellites and one orbital relay. Steve always hated how much firepower it took just to have a private conversation these days.
"You saw the footage," Steve said.
"I did."
"And?"
"I think we found the most dangerous thing to ever sleep in our custody," Fury replied. "And that includes the alien who snapped half the universe."
Steve's jaw clenched. "He hasn't hurt anyone who didn't threaten him first."
"Yeah? So did the Hulk. And we built bunkers just in case he sneezed wrong."
"He learns fast. That's not a crime."
Fury narrowed one eye. "He mimicked Capoeira after watching Natasha blink. Steve, this guy isn't learning. He's absorbing. He's a viral thought in muscle form."
Steve shook his head. "Then why didn't he kill Thor?"
"Because he doesn't want to kill. Not yet. Right now, he's testing. Mapping."
"He said a word today," Steve said, more softly now. "Out loud."
That got Fury's attention.
"What word?"
Steve didn't look away from the screen.
"Hero."
The silence on the line stretched out.
"You sure?" Fury asked at last.
"I heard it."
"Doesn't mean he meant it."
"Doesn't mean he didn't."
Fury sighed through his nose. "You're looking at him like he's Bucky."
Steve didn't flinch.
Fury continued, quieter now. "He's not your old friend, Steve. He's not even a man. He's something older. Or newer. Or broken in just the right way that it pretends to be human while we give it a name."
Steve leaned back.
"He remembers something," he said. "Maybe not a face. Maybe not a moment. But that word? He felt it."
"And if he remembers he's not one?"
Steve stood, stepping away from the console.
"Then we remind him."
Fury's voice was low, almost a whisper. "Keep him close, Rogers. And don't blink."
The line cut.
Steve stood there for a long time, staring at his own reflection in the blank monitor. Behind him, down the hall, the training room was quiet again. Garou sat alone in the corner, breathing steady. Not moving.
Not watching.
Not anymore.
Just still.
Like something waiting to wake up.