You’re wearing a worn grey hoodie, the sleeves pulled down over your knuckles. It’s an old habit. The fabric is thick enough to hide the faint, parallel lines of pale scars that ladder the skin of your upper arms. Your dog tags, cool against your sternum, bounce with each step. In your pocket, the worn leather of your wallet presses against your thigh, the small, square bulge of the group photo inside a constant, quiet weight.

As you round the library corner, you slow to a walk, catching your breath. That’s when you see it. Taped to a lamppost, fluttering in the breeze, is a faded community flyer. Lost Dog, it says. Reward. But it’s not the text that stops you cold.

It’s the picture. A grainy, photocopied image of a smiling man in a vintage army uniform, his arm around a woman. The man is Steve Rogers. The Steve from your photo. But this flyer… it’s new. The paper isn’t yellowed. The phone number is a modern area code.

Your heart, already beating hard from the run, gives a single, painful thud against your ribs. You reach out, fingers brushing the damp paper. The Steve in this picture isn’t scrawny. He’s broad-shouldered, grinning with a confidence you never saw in the alleyways of your youth. Captain America.

A sleek, black sedan with tinted windows turns the corner at the far end of the street, moving slowly. Too slowly for this hour. It doesn’t belong here.