The First Thread Unraveled
Steve’s apartment was eerily quiet save for the shallow, uneven breathing of Nick Fury as he lay slumped on the floor. Blood seeped through his tactical gear, pooling against the aged wood, and Celeste could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on her.
The ambush had been precise. Calculated. Whoever had attacked Fury had done so with deadly efficiency, and if there was one thing she knew from experience—it wasn’t over yet.
Her instincts were screaming, every muscle in her body tense as she moved to the window, scanning the rooftops outside. A flicker of movement caught her eye—a shadow shifting against the dim glow of the city. She had spent years honing her senses, recognizing when she was being watched. And they were being watched.
“Steve,” she murmured, just as he caught sight of the same thing. Their eyes met in silent understanding.
Before either of them could act, the window shattered.
Gunfire tore through the apartment. Celeste threw herself to the side, rolling into cover as bullets rained down. Steve pulled his shield up, protecting Fury’s unconscious form while Celeste’s hand shot out, instinctively crafting a thin wall of shimmering light to deflect stray rounds.
Then, just as quickly as it had started, the attack ceased.
Celeste didn’t hesitate. She moved fast, vaulting toward the window, her light-forged daggers materializing in her hands as she scanned the street below. But whoever had fired the shots was already gone. A ghost in the wind.
Steve was already kneeling by Fury’s side, his expression grim. “We need to get him out of here.”
Celeste nodded, but her mind was already racing. Someone had tried to take Fury out, and they had done it with precision. That meant this wasn’t just an attack—it was an execution. And the only thing more concerning than an assassination attempt was the fact that Fury had known it was coming.
Natasha arrived moments later, eyes flicking from Fury’s prone form to the bullet-ridden walls. “This isn’t good.”
“No,” Celeste muttered, gripping the hilts of her fading daggers. “It’s not.”
They barely made it to the hospital in time. Fury was rushed into surgery, but the damage was severe. Celeste stood beside Steve and Natasha in the waiting room, arms crossed tightly, tension coiled in her chest like a vice.
And then, he was gone.
Dr. Fine stepped out, face grim as he announced Nick Fury’s death. Silence fell like a hammer. Celeste felt it in the pit of her stomach, the same cold, sinking feeling she had known once before, when she had lost everything.
But something wasn’t right.
Nick Fury didn’t die easily.
Before she could voice her suspicions, Agent Rumlow and a squad of S.T.R.I.K.E operatives entered the hall. “Captain Rogers, Agent Romanoff, Agent Vale,” Rumlow said, his expression carefully neutral. “Director Pierce wants to see you.”
The way he said it sent a ripple of unease down Celeste’s spine. She exchanged a quick glance with Steve and Natasha. They all felt it.
Something was very, very wrong.
Still, they had no choice but to follow.