In Dr. Zola’s laboratory, the air hums with the faint strains of Ein Schwert verhieß mir der Vater.

Johann Schmidt, his shadowy face stern, confirms to Dr. Zola, “It has been given.”

Zola nods, satisfied. “Good,” he replies, his voice clipped.

Schmidt gestures toward an artist’s portrait of himself, a hint of pride in his tone.

“Dr. Zola! What do you think?”

Zola’s eyes gleam with quite a bit of fear and horror as he studies the painting. “A masterpiece,” he says.

The scene shifts to a car driving through Brooklyn’s familiar streets.

Steve Rogers, seated beside Peggy Carter, gazes out the window, recognizing the neighborhood.

“I know this neighborhood. I got beat up in that alley. And that parking lot. And behind that diner,” he says, pointing out each spot with a wry tone.

Peggy glances at him, curious. “Did you have something against running away?” she asks, her voice teasing but gentle.

Steve’s expression hardens with resolve. “You start running, they’ll never let you stop. You stand up, you push back. They can’t say no forever, right?” he says, his words steady.

Peggy nods, a flicker of understanding in her eyes. “I know a little of what that’s like…” she begins, her tone soft, connecting with his determination.