In the smoky British pub, Jim Morita leans back, grinning at Dum Dum Dugan. “Well, that was easy,” he says, impressed by Dugan’s quick work getting Steve to cover their drinks.

Steve steps up to the bar. “Another round,” he calls.

The bartender, wiping a glass, raises an eyebrow. “Where are they putting all this stuff?”

Steve joins Bucky Barnes at another table, the clink of glasses fading into the background. Bucky smirks. “See? I told you. They’re all idiots.”

“How about you?” Steve asks, his tone serious. “You ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death?”

“Hell, no,” Bucky replies, his grin softening. “That little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb not to run away from a fight. I’m following him. But you’re keeping the outfit, right?”

Steve chuckles, glancing down at his Army uniform. “You know what? It’s kind of growing on me.”

The pub falls quiet as Peggy Carter enters, her striking red dress turning heads. She strides toward Steve, poised and confident. “Captain.”

“Agent Carter,” Steve responds, standing.

Bucky nods respectfully. “Ma’am.”

Peggy’s eyes lock on Steve. “Howard has some equipment for you to try. Tomorrow morning?”